Rise of Arlathan
by BeyondThedas
Summary: When the arrival of two mysterious women attracts the attention of the now-retired Bard Ives Durante, his curiosity sparks a chain of events that will lead from the Grey Warden's Keep in Val Royeaux all the way to the Great Hall of Arlathan. Join Ives and his companions as they search to find a cure for the taint, and discover that no less than the future of Thedas is at stake.
1. Whispers in the Wind

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter One: Whispers in the Wind  
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The song of a flute danced in the wind.

Val Royeaux danced along with it, packed full of people as they went about their business. As the oppressive heat of summer slowly gave way before the cool crispness of fall, the residents of the capital city of Orlais took advantage of the break in heat to pour into the streets, indulging in any manner of activities which the sun's hot beams had prevented. Money changed hands as baubles were purchased, cool drinks were poured, and information was exchanged. It was Orlais, and that meant that words were as valuable - if not more - as the wine which usually accompanied them. In the distance flashed the bright white of the Cathedral's spires and dome where it lay at the heart of the Chantry. Despite the distance which lay between this unimportant market square and the expansive center of Val Royeaux, the faint strains of the Chant reached the ears of those who drank, and laughed, and _lived_.

And the persistent joy of the flute celebrated with all of them.

It was a cheerful melody, full of life and wonder, and those who came into its power would smile as a memory came to them of a happier time: a beautiful spring day, the chuckle of a child, or perhaps even the light touch of a lover. Those who sought the source of their sudden good mood found a sight common in Val Royeaux: a busker, faded hat on the curb beside him, playing for a few coppers so that he could buy hot mulled wine for the night before the chill of the coming autumn could settle into his bones.

Such was the skill of the minstrel that there was even some silver mixed in with the copper in the hat, and the music distracted his audience enough they could be forgiven for not noticing the way his eyes moved over the crowd, as if he were searching for someone. When he wrapped up his song with a flourish and a bow, there was a smattering of applause as he swept up his hat and collected his earnings, and then he was dismissed from the minds of the people to whom he had given a small measure of joy. Life moved on, after all, regardless of the little distractions that came up along the way.

Ives Durante smiled as he placed the faded hat upon his head and tucked his flute into a case whose fine silver engraving belied the ragged clothes and smudged skin. As it was, he secured his earnings into a leather pouch beneath his tunic and began to follow the path laid by his eyes, fixed as they were on two figures working their way slowly through the crowd.

His sources had been correct: two women, both seemingly human - one shorter than most elves and the other wearing a cloak with a hood that kept her face in a perpetual shadow. He'd seen enough of a glimpse under that hood to be almost certain that she was one of the ones he sought, and no other pair had come through the square that was even close to the description he'd committed to his memory.

"Ah, lala, you are rather good at not being noticed," he murmured softly. Unlike most women of his acquaintance - _outside_ of his chosen profession, naturally - who wore dresses designed to enhance their figure and dressed their hair to attract the eye, these two could almost have passed for men, with their bland green and grey trews and tunics and hair bound so securely and subtly that one had to look to see that the short one had quite a lot of hair hidden under the collar of her cloak. Such a petite thing, yet her eyes constantly moved about the area, and she walked not with the steps designed to move the hips in a way to enchant a man but with the stride of one accustomed to carrying a weapon upon her back. "And you are good at seeing what is around you." He calculated their trajectory. "Ah, but you are still lost. Perhaps I should take pity on you before the dark comes and the true predators of the city emerge."

So saying, he quickened his steps, abandoning the idea of trying to take them unawares; it was clear that technique would not work with them. No, instead he concentrated on the fact that they were carrying at least one bag too many as his way to approach them, even though they had already turned down three other hopeful porters while he had watched. "Time to use some of that Durante charm."

With a quick sprint and exact knowledge of the alleys and byways of Val Royeaux, he managed to get ahead of them, ending up on another street corner where he quickly took some time to look less scruffy and slightly more reputable. Luck was with him as, just when they came close enough for him to call out to them, a blonde-haired vagabond staggered into the taller one, forcing her off-balance and almost knocking her off her feet. Ives rushed over and caught her bag and her elbow, salvaging both, and yelled a mild epithet at the wastrel, whose slurred reply wouldn't bear repeating in polite company. Thankfully Ives didn't take offense to insults on his abhorrent father, especially ones he'd directed towards the man himself a time or two. Turning to the woman he had helped, he said, "Ah, lala, you must have such a poor opinion of Val Royeaux after such an incident. Allow me to salvage the reputation of the beloved crown jewel of the Empress' seat." He swept into an over-elaborate bow. "Perhaps I could assist you ladies? I promise you, you will remain firmly on your feet as long as I am at your command."

The woman he'd saved from an untimely dusty bottom pulled back from him quickly, hand going to her hood to quickly restore it over her face - though not quickly enough to prevent him from seeing some of the scars that marked her, an obvious reason why she went to such lengths to conceal herself. As she attended to that, the shorter woman stepped forward and held out her hand for the bag yet in his grasp. "I think we'll be fine, thank you, ser."

He put on a charming smile. "But I know every nook, every cranny! And for such lovely company, I would perform such a service for only a few coppers. Such a bargain!"

The petite woman took another step closer, her stance making it even more evident she was no stranger to combat. The anxious way her face turned from side to side, however, displayed a bit more nervousness than she'd shown previously, as if she were afraid of something... or _someone. _"You _seem _to be a lout, but-"

The other woman suddenly spoke. "But a useful lout. Give him your bag."

The short one looked at her companion, obviously startled. "Livilla-"

"I'm tired of carrying everything, and he did save me from a rather ignominious embarrassment." Livilla gestured towards where Ives stood. "Go on. If he really does know every nook and cranny of this ridiculously large city, I'm sure he can take us to the Keep."

Though still uncertain, the short woman finally sighed and held out her bag. "If you're sure."

Ives reached out for the bag - which turned out to be surprisingly heavy - and took the opportunity to peek under her hood, since it didn't conceal her nearly as completely as that of her companion. He found deep blue eyes framed by a face kissed only lightly by the sun. Pretty - but then, he'd rarely found a woman he couldn't use the word for - but with a line between her brows that spoke of a worry that never went away. "The Keep of the Grey Wardens? Of course I know where it is." He nodded back in the direction from which they'd come. "Unfortunately, it is behind you."

Livilla's hood turned to look at the shorter woman, who now looked embarrassed herself. "I told you we were going the wrong way, Isabeau."

"It's a ridiculously large city," she mumbled. Hitching her second bag higher onto her shoulder, she waved vaguely behind them. "Lead on, lout."

Ives chuckled lightly, but it was obviously no wise idea to continue heckling the poor women. "It is! Wonderfully, perhaps, rather than ridiculously, but just look around you! Cobbled streets, quaint cafes, fabulous drapery, brilliantly artistic signs... Ah, and can you hear it? Mm, the Chant, drifting through the streets and alleyways. A good reminder how blessed we are to live in Val Royeaux, _no_? But you don't seem to like it here somehow! Tell me, how is it so? Where do you lovely maidens hail from that you scorn such a spectacular, such a perfect gem as this?"

"The northern gate," Livilla said. "And before that, Montfort." Ives noticed the surprised glance Isabeau sent her friend, as if not expecting her to actually provide an answer. "Now, _that_ is the perfect city, Large enough to provide protection, small enough that you don't have to deal with..." She hesitated, then looked at where a large tree could be seen in the distance, jutting up from the distant Alienage. "...with humanity's worst mistakes."

Intrigued, Ives wished he could get a closer look at the woman. She was certainly too tall for an elf, but most humans - particularly in Orlais - didn't care one whit for elves beyond making sure they cleaned houses meticulously and prepared food on time. "Not all of humanity is so dreadful," he defended. "Why, I'm fairly certain I'm mostly human myself! Then again, there's a penchant in my family that makes me wonder... but that is certainly neither here nor there. I happen to fancy Montfort myself, you know. It's a wonderful little city, and it has such charming country ... ah, well... charm." He chuckled, hurrying ahead of them a step or three so that he could turn mostly towards them, walking more a blend of sideways and backwards than properly forward. There was quite a lot to glean from demeanor. "Not like the Warden's Keep. That is a ... Mm, heartier place. What would ever bring two lovely mademoiselles to such a place?"

"Limited opportunities," the taller one retorted. "And since we worked at the Keep in Montfort, we hope to find similar positions here with the Wardens. And that is all we need tell you." She paused, forcing Ives to halt as well as she turned and called, "Isabeau!"

The shorter one flushed and trotted to catch up with them. "Sorry, I thought I saw-" Her eyes darted to Ives for a second. "-a familiar face." Her hand disappeared under her cloak, and Ives had no doubt that it now rested upon the hilt of some kind of weapon.

Livilla stiffened. "Faster, lout. We'd prefer not to be on the streets of Orlais when the sun sets and the debauchery commences." For all her pretense, her words could not conceal the fear that leached into her voice.

"But night is my favorite hour! Ah, well, I suppose if we must. A shortcut may be in order, no?" Though he took their sleeves and pulled them along a side row, his eyes were still watching the street from whence they'd come. There was a face that he'd seen once before today, a face marked by a scar on his mouth that was quite distinctive, and that was peculiar since they weren't really in the same neighborhood anymore. It would take a third time to become more than a coincidence, and hopefully they would be at the Keep before that could happen. "You see, and now we'll cross the canal, and avoid having to walk all those extra blocks to the next main bridge. It's not as grand and beautiful as the other, but, ah, well... beauty must be found elsewhere, I suppose. Oh! Look, I've found some." Their cheeky guide gave Livilla a nudge and winked to her hooded face.

Isabeau reached out and put a hand on Livilla's arm even as it moved, quickly coming to her side and whispering something in what Ives recognized as the language of the Tevinter Imperium, but spoken so quickly he couldn't get more than every other word, though it roughly boiled down to _'he means well,'_ as far as he could tell. Turning to Ives as Livilla muttered under her breath and fell a step behind them, she said brightly, "And we are fortunate to have met you, ser, an honest minstrel willing to assist strangers in your beloved city. Do you generally perform these generous acts of goodwill?"

In a woman of Val Royeaux, or someone accustomed to the Game of Orlais, such a question would have seemed either cynical or flirtatious, those being the main forms of the Game between a man and a woman who were recent acquaintances. Isabeau... _She's either sincere, _Ives mused, _or a master of the Game at a young age - and both are highly unlikely. _

"Oh, no. Usually I'm not this sober." He chuckled heartily and put his attention back onto Isabeau, as she seemed to be the more receptive target here. "Would you believe I am a flirtatious drunk? Ah, you probably thought me a saintly sort before I confessed such a thing to you... Perhaps my lips are too loose. Or maybe my belt too tight... But we part at this point, for now, so I am able to escape my slips of the tongue. Convenient, _oui_?"

Their quickened journey had brought them to stand before the Warden's Keep, with its great, dusty courtyard separated from the rest of the city by massive, thin-railed gates, standing as it had for Ages: a bulwark against Darkspawn incursion from the mainland. As the years lengthened and the Blight in Ferelden became naught but a distant memory, however, the Keep came to represent mainly a source of casual entertainment in the form of its recruits, sweating through their training routines in the vast courtyard in plain view of all who passed by and looked curiously within. Beyond that courtyard lay only mysteries: few ever saw more than the inside of the mess hall, and only the Grey Wardens and those servants sworn to secrecy - usually derived from families who for generations had sworn the same oath - went beyond the sleeping quarters that housed the recruits. He gazed up at the high walls, then shook his head and turned to them with yet another florid bow. "... Except that I must leave you, for the guide is only useful so long as you are lost! Inconvenient indeed. I was so enjoying your company."

"I'm sure, lout," Livilla said, moving with almost unseemly haste as she took her bag from Ives and ushered Isabeau forward. "Come on, we'll see him later."

Ives raised an eyebrow, wondering how Livilla knew that particular fact, as Isabeau followed her friend's lead, though she whispered a quick thanks to Ives as she took her bag. Still, the way her eyes widened as she looked beyond Ives before she turned and practically bolted into the Keep tickled more than Ives' curiosity: the hairs on the back of his neck had responded to her reaction, alerting him to a danger whose nature he did not yet know.

Quickly he turned and sought the reason for her fear, his own hand slipping to a knife hidden in a cunning fashion behind his belt. He found a small crowd gathering in front of the Keep, attention turned inward. Warily he moved to join the crowd, his bardic instinct for trouble on high alert. He hadn't discovered _anything_ he'd wanted to in this little excursion: why the unusual pair had been granted permission to transfer from Montfort; why the recruit - whom he assumed to be Isabeau, despite her height - was younger on paper than she appeared to be in person; or why Livilla had only been listed as 'servant' when it was clear she willingly bowed to no one. However, he could at least determine why they had acted as if the Archdemon himself were following them.

After a bit of delicate bullying and lavishing of charming smiles, he finally made his way to the center of the crowd in time to see a Chantry laysister close the eyes of a man lying limp on the ground. Biting his lip to refrain from drawing attention to himself, he watched as a flurry of questions and exclamations and (this being Val Royeaux) swoons swept through the crowd as the woman stood from where she had knelt next to the body. "He rests in the Maker's arms," she announced. "Did anyone see what happened?"

The crowd seemed generally oblivious, but Ives obeyed the nagging in the back of his mind and slowly turned his head to look at the man beside him.

Once was chance, twice coincidence, but three times... Though he could only see the profile of the man, the light of the setting sun caught enough of the face to highlight the scar that ran alongside the man's mouth, pulling it into a permanent sneer. Ives _knew_ it was the same man he'd seen in the square where he'd first found the girls, the same man that Isabeau had tried to deny knowing, and now... He looked back at the dead body as two men straightened the limbs and prepared it to be taken away, trying to figure out what had made the dead man a target - and what manner of assassin had struck him down.

His peripheral vision caught a movement from his side: the man he suspected to be the killer was making a tucking motion into his tunic. Fighting the urge to go look for a dart on the body of the deceased, he made a _tsk_ing sound and shook his head. "Such a tragedy. Truly a senseless death, and on a most beautiful day!" His mind raced, trying to come up with a _reason_ with which he could test the waters. "Ah lala, the Game has gotten rather dark since his Grace beheaded himself before the Sun Gates, dead before his rebellion against the Empress could reach dastardly fruition." He gestured vaguely to the body which someone had now covered with a cloak. "Must this be the cost of stability? Murder in the streets? Ah, such a pity."

The man didn't turn to him, but an odd smile twisted his already askew lips as a dark blue eye - the only one Ives could see - looked into the sky. "Gaspard de Chalons showed uncommon fortitude that day, to sacrifice himself for the good of the Empress and Orlais. A good lesson, perhaps, for those who choose to involve themselves in matters they should ignore." Ives noted the cultured Orlesian accent, spoken with the tones that usually only those of a noble background acquired, and wondered at the words - which seemed directed at _him_ as much as at the corpse lying on the ground. "I wonder if this act will be repeated, or if the lesson will be taken to heart."

The clink of armor signaled the approach of a squad of Chevalier, likely summoned at the request of the laysister, and the man shrugged. "Good day to you, ser. Pray we never meet again." Before Ives could respond with word or action, the man turned and slipped through the crowd. Even though Ives kept his gaze fixed on the man, he still lost track of him far sooner than he should have.

Letting a frown rise to the surface, he looked over to where the squad of Chevalier were talking with the laysister and taking control of the situation. Catching sight of a familiar figure - _very_ familiar, since he rather enjoyed the use of mirrors - he strolled over and caught his twin's attention. As he waited silently for his brother to finish the conversation with an old comrade, his gaze moved restlessly over the area, certain there were eyes upon him but unable to find the source.

When Jean laughed heartily and clapped his friend on the shoulder, Ives knew the conversation was over and that he would soon have his brother's undivided attention. The Chevalier with whom his brother had been speaking waved at Ives cheerfully before turning and rejoining his fellows in their grim task, and Jean approached Ives with a lingering smile on his face.

Ives inclined his head towards the Keep, indicating that it should be their destination, and Jean nodded. As they walked slowly towards the gates, Jean said in what he probably thought was a quiet voice, "So what did you find out about our mysterious pair?" His Orlesian accent was very thick, much thicker than Ives' own, but in the Keep it was considered polite to use trade speech rather than Orlesian - particularly since the resident Warden-Commander was a Dalish elf that hailed originally from Ferelden. His whisper was similarly clumsy, since the man had not a dishonest bone in his body, as far as Ives could tell. Granted, considering Ives' own dubious past, it merely meant that Ives himself had gotten the double dose for both of them.

"Very little," Ives murmured, his less accented voice soft enough to avoid detection. "One of them hid her face so well even I could catch no more than a glimpse. She could not easily hide in a crowd, though." At Jean's puzzled glance, he sighed. "You will know why when you see her. I saw hints of scars, but I suspect when she is uncovered they are quite a bit more noticeable. Your new student is shorter than our Artana, if you can believe that."

"And she is a human?" he asked, surprised, as Artana was certainly no giant among elves. "Her recommendation says that she is good with a shield... If she is so short, maybe that is because she can hide behind it, _oui_?" Though he had certainly sobered from that booming laugh he shared with his brother-in-gilded-arms, the man could not laugh insincerely. It was a shame this conversation had to be tainted by so many oddities. He had been hoping some of the mystery around their two visitors would prove to be rumor and gossip. Now it seemed that the storm clouds had begun to roll in. A murder right in front of the Keep... no doubt the Wardens would be pressured by the Guard for any pertinent information. "We should see how the week goes, I think. It should be interesting, whatever happens."

"Oh, I will agree with that, _mon freré. _Interesting... and quite busy. Well, whoever said that sleep is more than a luxury is proved the fool yet again." He stepped by Jean, clapping his shoulder as he passed, and looked towards the topmost window in the left tower. Artana took an office under her favorite vantage in the Keep, as her Dalish heritage taught her to always be keenly aware of her surroundings. He wondered if the Warden-Commander's choice would aid him at all in the days to come; the Keep was supposed to be a haven, but no matter the prowess of the Commander's bow, she needed him to play the Game. In Val Royeaux, not even the Wardens were safe from its twisted machinations.

He almost missed the movement in the corner of his vision, looking back only in time to see a haunting profile before it disappeared into the crowd.

"Let's get inside," he said, an odd chill waking goosepimples on his arms. "I don't like the feel of the shadows this day."

Jean shrugged amiably. "As you wish, _mon freré_. You will need to report to Artana, at any rate."

"Ah, but I thought _you_ were thrusting the reports at her this night, _mon frére,"_ Ives replied with a wink. "In a suitably _in depth_ fashion, of course. Maker forbid we disappoint our Dalish princess, _non?"_

With a familiar roll of his eyes at Ives' teasing, Jean simply shook his head, returning their conversation to more serious matters. "What exactly do you need to look into?""

Ives sobered as they walked through into the Keep proper, feeling slightly better with the thick gate closed behind him. "Several matters, including the fact that our mysterious pair of beauties apparently know the language of the Imperium, and that the poor soul your former comrade-in-arms out there are even now carting away to the Chantry for proper burial was from the Tevinter Imperium himself." Though the man had tried to blend in with Orlesian clothes, he hadn't changed his hairstyle or bothered to remove the amulet that showed his allegiance to a Magister. It didn't matter _which _Magister - Ives recognized the significance of the amulet without needing to fret over the details, as it were.

Jean sent him a sharp look. "Truly? That's... odd." He frowned. It was more than odd, it was a wrinkle that took this out of the realm of the Game with which even he was familiar and put it into an intrigue that only a trained bard could truly understand.

Luckily, he had Ives. "More than odd," he agreed to Jean's statement. "And put all that together with the fact I suspect I know who our killer is, though my only evidence is instinct, and it adds up to some late nights for me." He smiled. "Ah, lala, later than has been _normal._"

Jean chuckled. "As long as you remember to use sense when you wander, I am sure Artana will allow you to continue your investigation. Granted, that's demanding quite a bit from you..."

Wrinkling his nose, Ives puffed himself up haughtily. "I'll have you know there are none with better sense than I! Why, even the Empress herself has-" He stopped, and a smile came to his face. "Well, well, speaking of mysteries..." He pointed to where two figures, still in travel-stained cloaks, stood deep in conversation next to the wall of the courtyard. "Care to meet your pupil, _mon freré?_" He grinned as Jean's eyes followed the line of his finger to the pair of hooded _dammes_. "I'll introduce you myself! Letting them know my introduction was a ruse is no terrible sin. After all... It's a mere matter of time before they too reach that threshold wherein it is too much to possibly love me anymore, and instead they begin to hate for reprieve."

His twin brother simply shook his head and wondered aloud, "Is it possible to start in the second stage?"

"Fiend," Ives huffed, moving forward and pulling the hat from his head and the raggedy coat from his back. With both over his arm he looked to be a very different man indeed - well coiffed save for the dirt he'd polished on for effect wherever the coat did not cover, and sharply dressed in a ruff-collared shirt and a vest in the same leather that made up his breeches. "_Mademoiselles!_ Welcome home, hm?"

They turned and looked at him. Isabeau giggled as Livilla, face still shrouded by her hood, said, "You took your addlepated time, lout. I thought you'd lost your way. Odd for a Warden to forget how to find his own Keep."

"Livilla!" Isabeau said with a playful nudge. "You know that wasn't what we were worried about." Reaching up, she pushed her own hood back and wrapped her fingers in her black hair, untying it from the knotted bun she'd put it in for traveling. "So you're a twin?" she asked Ives as she brought her hair over her shoulder and began combing her hair through it. "What's the handsome one's name?"

"Jean," Ives supplied in the very same moment and breath as Jean when he answered, "Ives."

Isabeau smiled as Livilla shook her head. The movement shifted her hood back a little bit, and Ives saw more than a mere hint of the scars he'd glimpsed earlier, crisscrossing her lower jaw and neck before disappearing under her clothing. He managed not to stare, but he was now _very_ curious about her appearance. "Well, at least one of you is honest," Livilla noted.

"_Livilla!"_ Isabeau gasped.

Ives got the feeling that Isabeau rather enjoyed her friend's acerbic comments, even if they treaded beyond politeness into the realm of insult. Clearing his throat, he drew their attention to him once more. "That is, _I_ am Ives, and this is Jean, and we are both handsome, _oui_?" One of Ives' baby blues winked, and in particular he seemed to be aiming the following shift of focus to Livilla. It was brief, though - not the least because Ives flourished and tilted downwards at the waist for a bow, limited by their close quarters. "We are in fact twins, and of a like mind about making sure neither of you lovelies have anything to worry about at all within these gates."

"Isn't it hot for a cloak like that?" Jean wondered innocently enough, not having received the full report of how these two hid. "What's your rank? Perhaps we have some armor you could change into within your size."

"She doesn't need armor," Isabeau said hastily as Livilla edged away. "She's my servant. It's been arranged with the Warden-Commander that once I become a Grey Warden, she'll stay on here in a similar capacity. She's a marvelous seamstress."

Livilla groaned. "Isabeau, that means something _different_ in Val Royeaux, remember?"

Isabeau looked a bit confused. "I don't-" Then she suddenly turned bright red. "Oh... _Oh_, right. I, ah, forgot. I haven't been in Val Royeaux since I was quite young." Clearing her throat, she hurriedly continued, "Ah, not _that_ kind, but she's truly a marvel with needles. Not that I have much need for a variety of clothes, of course." She looked down at her rather plain traveling outfit. "Recruits rarely do."

"At any rate, you shouldn't see much of me after this, ser," Livilla said, addressing Jean. "And no great loss, I assure you." Still, she seemed to be regarding him closely. "Jean... Jean... Jean Durante?"

"Oh!" Isabeau gasped. "The specialist in sword and shield?" Now she seemed to be all business, throwing her hair back as she moved closer to Jean and peered up at him. "You were the one Warden-Commander Giselle in Montfort recommended to talk to about further weapons work. There hasn't been anyone at Montfort who can even make me break into a sweat for _years. _Will you be able to take me on for advanced instruction?" Her face broke into a wide smile. "And you're so tall! I've rarely been able to go against such a tall opponent - for some reason, the men at Montfort tend to be more Livilla's height." With a shake of her head, she continued to question him, expression intent. "Will I have an opportunity to see you handle your blade? I'm sure it's a fine one!"

Ives noticed an interesting thing as Isabeau got excited: instead of the accent of a rustic Orlesian she'd been sporting, her tone became smoother, more cultured. Not quite like his own or Jean's, but certainly not like the country cousin from the less populated portions of Orlais which she'd pretended to thus far. He put a hand over his mouth to hide the smile at her eagerness. It was a bit incongruous, to see such a petite thing throwing detailed questions about swords and shields at his brother with seemingly no awareness of the other meaning of the word _blade._ He saw that Livilla had turned her head and was trying very hard not to make a noise, but her shoulders were shaking suspiciously.

Obviously, he could not interrupt this priceless conversation. Especially when he noticed Jean's ears adopting a tinge of red. Though a man of pure heart and a noble soul, he _did _have three children of his own, and had spent enough time in Court and around the Orlesian Game that triple entendres were familiar to him, much less unwitting double ones. Ives held down the smirk as best he could, but he did feel much the same as Livilla.

"Ah, yes," he finally said, moving forward, a hand reaching to the shoulders of both warriors so he could turn them and aim them across the courtyard. "I happen to know quite well that Jean's blade is most fine indeed. Coveted even. And he decidedly handles it with spectacular precision. You can hear the praise clear across the Keep after a good ... duel. Rest assured there will be a _vigorous_ instruction with vast quantities of sweat. Why, I am positive you will be the most fulfilled - daresay satisfied - as you have been in years. Go! Go on, before you lose the sun! It would be a shame to not _christen_ your arrival with a spar!"

Jean was sputtering at this point, and Ives was just barely holding down against the urge to laugh, but ... he was glad for it. After meeting that _man_ in the streets, he wasn't feeling so at ease about his promise to keep the Warden's Keep worry-free.

Isabeau's ears had also turned red, but as she turned to glare at Ives, her expression became distracted. "Perhaps we should just go to our rooms," she said softly. Wriggling away from Ives, she took Livilla's hand and pulled her away, hard enough that the hood came loose.

Ives saw a face marked by more scars than he'd ever seen outside those who regularly patrolled the Deep Roads, though the quick glimpse was more a general impression than any details. The haste with which they moved away filled him with disquiet once more, and he craned his head, trying to see anything amiss, but saw nothing. While Ives was frowning, Jean put his fear to words.

"Look what you did," his brother - the far more upstanding of the pair - scolded. "They're new, they must have been mor ... mor- mor... _mortified_," he finally blurted in his native tongue, and Ives knew how flustered he must have made him if he threw aside the Trade tongue, "- than I am!"

"It may have been ill-timed," Ives agreed, still looking around, "though I'm not so certain the reason is what you believe. Let them go to their room. Perhaps it's safer for them there. I am going to go be certain our guests are properly recorded by our lovely little wood nymph." Before Jean could respond, Ives was running by, patting his shoulder, and disappeared into the Keep.

Life had just become a bit more dangerous.


	2. Arrow in the Dark

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Two: Arrow in the Dark  
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Ives found himself frustrated again and again over the next few weeks. Though Isabeau should not have been difficult to track down - he ___was_ a Grey Warden, after all, and she but a recruit of the Order - it soon became clear to him that her ability to evade scrutiny was polished to a shine. Though not a complete hermit, she tended to avoid any gatherings or events which did not require her presence, including meals, one of his preferred times to catch a target unawares. Livilla was equally talented at avoiding notice, and since she was a servant, he had even fewer avenues to exploit to arrange time with her.

On the other hand, Ives prided himself on his resourcefulness. A Court Bard - well, ___former_ Court Bard - would never so easily admit to defeat in the Game. Since the lovely duo seemed disinclined to reveal their secrets to him, it was time to wander down other avenues in search of what he needed, and so his feet took him to the bowels of the Keep, or 'the Deeps' as it was affectionately called by the Wardens of Val Royeaux.

Buried within the warren of corridors that threaded the gut of the Keep, his destination lay in the middle of those areas central to making life work smoothly: the rare hot springs which had been turned into soaks and baths; the steamy laundry rooms through which endless amounts of clothing passed each week; the vast storage space which likely had items left over from the Fourth Blight; and, amidst it all, the work rooms for the servants as they went about their duties.

Ives smiled as he remembered indulging in ___other_ activities in the more remote areas of the basement warren when he had first become Warden, before he had devoted himself to his delightful wood nymph. Ah, how matters had changed. The man who had once swore an oath to his father that he would never have responsibilities now fretted himself on a daily basis about the safety and security of his rather large, extended family of Grey Wardens.

His feet took him by instinct to the room he sought, one of the cheerier rooms in the place thanks to the woman who ruled it like an Empress. His favorite source for gossip could generally be found in her customary habitat: the sewing room, where all uniforms and clothes went for repair. Of course, given that weapons practice was a large part of Keep life, Marie had touched everyone's clothing and practice armor at least once, and her place as Housekeeper gave her access to the constant ebb and flow of rumors and speculation. A stout, no-nonsense woman with plenty of gray in her tightly-lashed hair and laugh lines on her face, she sat ensconced on her padded chair, needle dancing and feet spread out on a nearby stool.

Padding up behind her on silent feet, he was about to reach out for her oh-so-tempting braid when she said, "I wouldn't do that, my lad." Her voice, still thick with the burr of Nevarra, nevertheless held amusement. "Unless you wish parts of your clothes to be ___too_ tight, that is."

"Ah, lala, you are too clever for me by half," he said with a grin as he walked around her chair. "It is my everlasting tragedy that I cannot tickle more than your fancy, so I am forced to touch of you what I can." So saying, he took her hand and placed a resounding smack on the back of it before collapsing into a nearby pile of clothes.

"You, my lad, are a flatterer," she said, a twinkle in her eye as she resumed sewing. "Now, considering you deliberately chose a time to talk to me before any of my assistants arrive for the day, who is it you wanted to talk about?"

"Are you implying that I only seek you out when I need ___information?"_ Ives gasped. "And not for the beauteous joy of your companionship?"

She shot him a look older than time, then shook her head as he chortled. "I can at least save you some breath for your amusement. You want to know about Livilla, I presume?"

"No! I'm wounded! I ... Ah, but who am I kidding?" His feigned shock only lasted a few moments. "You know me too well. That is precisely the one I need information on!"

Marie's lips pursed in thought. "A clever hand with the needle, she has - the only one besides meself that can work leather and lace both. The first couple of weeks she insisted on wearing that hood, but the heat finally got to her. The evenings may be crisp, but we can easily broil alive down here, on the hot days." Clucking her tongue, she paused her needle for a moment. "I won't lie, it gave me a turn when I first saw her face. I've been around Wardens long enough to recognize damage left by accident, and scars left over from steel. The poor thing..."

Ives frowned. He hadn't had a good look at the scars, true, but he'd assumed they were burn marks - not an unknown injury in any city of Thedas, with the prevalence of straw for building material among the poor. "That bad?"

"Aye, that bad. Someone went to a lot of effort to make her look the way she does." A hand went up to her eye and slashed downward. "Even took out one of her eyes. The fact her other eye is black as night makes it a bit unsettling to be under her gaze, even for me. I can see why she wants to keep out of sight - she'll work when I'm here, and sometimes with Rosalie-"

"The one with her own fire marks," Ives recalled. Marie's nod let him know his memory was accurate. "But not at other times?"

"Never. And she never lets even me touch her mistress' clothes, or her own. Poor thing never seems to relax, either, and jumps at shadows all the time. I can't blame her, though. I doubt I'd be able to leave behind memories such as she must bear, either." Marie shrugged, and the needle resumed its flashing dance across the slashed jerkin she was working on. "Still, for all that, when she's in a good mood, she has a wicked good sense of humor and a beautiful little laugh. Pity she likely won't find anyone to appreciate it."

That comment ___did_ bring a smile to his face - Marie was an inveterate matchmaker, and had quite the deft touch for it, too. "Surely there is someone who could appreciate the beauty in the marks."

"Oh, there are few men such as you in the world, my lad. Still, I won't object to her staying on once her mistress becomes a Grey Warden, bless her heart, and I've already let the Warden-Commander know as well. She'll always have a place here." With a little flourish, she finished the jerkin and laid it aside. "Another piece, if you please."

Absently grabbing something from the top of the pile beside him, he handed it to her and said, "Speaking of her mistress..."

"Oh, little Isabeau. Such a tiny thing, but so strong!" She shook her head as she turned the clothing around in her hands, looking for the damage. Once she found that the sleeve had nearly been torn off, she began hunting through the basket next to her chair for the right thread. "I don't know nearly as much about her, sorry to say. I did once hear Livilla call her 'Madame de Brienne' in jest, but other than that, all I can tell you is that she's just a pretty Orlesian young lady - which I'm sure you already noticed."

"I'm sure I have ___absolutely _no idea what you are talking about," Ives replied ___quite _innocently. ___De Brienne..._The name tugged at something in his memory, and he made a note to ask Jean about it. The information was___something_ to investigate, at any rate.

"Hmph. I'd certainly trust her with Ser Jean before I'd trust her with ___you_, my lad." Ignoring his continued protestations, she threaded her needle with an air of long practice and began to work on the shirt. "Incidentally, Livilla will be getting here soon. So unless you want your nosiness to be general knowledge, you'd best skedaddle."

Ives stood with a great sigh of regret and made his goodbyes, promising a bottle of the finest cider he could lay his hands on for her assistance. Still, that had been ... somewhat productive, he figured, since he had more information than when he had first sought out his quarry. Jean hadn't been able to help him decipher the mystery surrounding Isabeau, since he hadn't actually had an opportunity to spar with her yet. Despite her initial enthusiasm, she had avoided Jean as much as Ives, perhaps working under the accurate assumption that whatever she told Jean would make it to Ives' far more discerning ears. The initial warmth she'd shown to Jean that first day had been replaced with the same wariness that Marie had noticed in Livilla, and it made tracking the little warrior down a bit of a challenge.

Still, his troubles had not gone unnoticed. Last night, Artana had announced a mandatory archery lesson for all recruits, even going so far as to have all the senior recruits track down those who had not been at the meal (including Isabeau) to inform them of it. Caught up as he was in his own quest, Ives hadn't quite made the connection that Artana had handed him an opportunity to interact with Isabeau on a silver platter until the following morning, even if Artana had insisted it was to ensure Isabeau actually met her peers.

"Ah, my unsuspectingly brilliant little Dalish heart," he half-hummed. Naturally, Ives would need to dole out a reward for such cleverness, but first he had to get to the lesson. He stole a glance out the first window along the spiral stairs he was taking two at a time, eyeing the sky above to pinpoint the hour, and knew he needed to pick up his pace if he wanted to meet Artana on time.

When he found her, he ambushed his wood nymph and stole away her breath in a thankful kiss. He knew that Artana seldom bothered to ask ___why_ he did things like that, so she predictably rolled her eyes with some degree of affection and continued on to the courtyard. Giving her space, he followed behind and smiled as she stopped and let her eyes adjust to the change in light.

"Yet the line to become a Chevalier was half a mile on recruitment day," he heard her murmur to herself before moving into the shooting range at the west end of the courtyard. He understood why she said it, as the number of recruits awaiting her lesson were paltry compared to those of the Chevalier. According to Keep records, once the entire courtyard had rung with blades and barks of commands during a typical training session. Now, only a small part of the courtyard was occupied with ___all_ the recruits in attendance. After the fervor of the Fifth Blight ten years past had dwindled, so too had the numbers of those offering themselves to service in the Order.

He turned slightly as Jean came up beside him, and their eyes met in a moment of silent greeting before they followed her. As they progressed across the courtyard in Artana's wake, he felt an odd sensation on his neck, as if someone had laid ice upon it, but a quick search of the courtyard revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Dismissing the oddity, he focused his attention on Artana as she began the lesson.

Watching her draw a bow never ceased to amaze him: such strength and discipline in her motions, such beauty in her grace. She still fletched her own arrows and repaired her own rare ironbark bow, a fanciful wood-as-hard-as-metal that was little more than a legend here in Val Royeaux. As the silver inlay danced in her well-oiled Commander's raiment, so too did the sunlight dance on her ___vallaslin,_ giving her the alluring air of the exotic.

A ___vallaslin_ was a funny thing to him - she'd explained it to him twice, the second time with a tinge of irritation - so he didn't dare ask for a repeat. Yet to hide one's own identity in the mask of a god, etched in sacred ink into one's own skin, still made him wonder.

Granted, there was much that made him wonder, and some of it was the wonder of awe. Her career was another matter that filled him with awe and pride. She'd been promoted through the ranks in positively no time at all despite her rather unusual entry into the ranks of the Grey Wardens at the beginning of the Fifth Blight. Her exploits were legendary, and no one wanted to be on the wrong side of a battle where she had an ideal vantage.

He knew that one of the first stories all recruits learned upon arriving at the Keep was of her prowess. She had, after all, cleaned out an entire Darkspawn nest single-handedly from the safety of a well-chosen nook. Fifty Darkspawn corpses, including an ogre, was proof enough for most any Warden in the Keep, and generally earned her the immediate respect of the recruits as well.

Judging by the proud smile, he knew full well that Artana Mahariel wouldn't have settled for any less now that she'd been taken from her clan in Ferelden. She was a fully dedicated woman, and she was going to become the best at whatever she set out to do. Even, sadly, if it meant that her life would draw to a premature close. The thought seemed at odds with the bright sunlight and clear sky, yet again that chill settled over his neck, and he frowned, wondering at such dark thoughts. Still, it was true that only those very ___close_ to Artana knew that her skin held the pallor of approaching death rather than the paleness of life without sun, or that the cold that emanated from her marked her as a victim of the incredibly strong kiss of the taint which consumed her even faster than most Wardens.

___If only Riordan had found her _sooner,___or had a mage with him to sustain her as he took her back to the Wardens at the border of Orlais... _Ah, if only...

For a while, the chirp of arrows was all that he heard from Artana's lesson on all manner of bows and their proper handling, his mind wandering from the past to sifting through the events of the present. Obviously he wasn't entirely immune to distraction as a handsome, if elsewise nondescript, blond fellow who hovered near the gate to watch the lesson from the outside caught his eye. Jean's nudge finally got his attention, indicating that it had come to Isabeau's turn.

As his eyes danced back to the lesson, a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision caught his notice, and he focused for a moment on the shadow where it had originated. With a frown, he fought the mild chill that ran over his neck arms and scoured the corner of shadows, but saw nothing. Forcing his gaze back to where Artana was working with Isabeau, he straightened his posture and ___focused._ The young woman's obvious awe of Artana hadn't escaped his notice. If anyone could get an unguarded reaction from Isabeau, it would be the Commander.

"It's a balance of strength and grace," he heard Artana say firmly, touching Isabeau lightly at various points on her shoulders and arms. Even from where he stood, Ives could see where the trouble lay - Isabeau was trying ___too_ hard to impress Artana and achieve the correct posture, and tension had tightened her shoulders enough to affect the shot. "Your stance is excellent," the Dalish continued, "but you fight the nature of the bow. I know it is hard to bond with a piece not your own, but sometimes it is best to not try harder." With another brief touch, she helped relax the woman's shoulders slightly.

Ives watched as Isabeau nodded and took another deep breath, closing her eyes and dipping the corners of her lips in the slightest frown. Her shoulders relaxed even further, and when she opened her eyes, there was a clarity in them that had not been there previously. "I think I understand," she said. "You have to let go of what you ___want _to do, so that you can do what must be done."

Artana nodded in satisfaction. "Inhale now. You should not feel your stomach get so tight this time. There is no one to achieve for but yourself. Do not waver, but bend when you must."

Fascinated, Ives watched as Isabeau straightened her back and took a breath, holding it rather than releasing it. A calm settled over her as she drew back the string, aimed, and released in one smooth motion, exhaling only after the arrow had been loosed.

It struck dead center.

Impressed, Ives began to applaud enthusiastically, nudging Jean who stood next to him in a not so subtle hint to join him. After rolling his eyes and nudging back, his brother did so, a broad grin on his face in acknowledgment of Isabeau's feat. The greatest praise probably came on the dark-painted lips of the stoic Commander, however: she ___smiled_.

"Very good. Dismissed."

It was not the dismissal in shame that most recruits dreaded. This was the one precious few ever heard: the 'good job, you've completed this lesson, you may leave early' ___dismissed_, the one that earned jealous glances. To her credit, Isabeau accepted the compliment well and bowed correctly, recruit to Commander._"____Il a été un honneur, Commandant._ I think you for your instruction."

As Isabeau turned to leave, Artana glanced at Ives, her expression clearly reminding him to take advantage of this opportunity to have a private conversation with Isabeau, even if her early dismissal had been earned and not ___solely_ for Ives' benefit. He dropped an eyelid for the briefest of moments as he confirmed this plot with a wink, his route fairly clear with Isabeau headed for a particular corner of the courtyard, behind the racks where she carefully replaced her bow.

The lesson continued without him as he moved behind the racks, hoping to avoid her notice until she'd entered the Keep proper, where he would then engage her. Every other chance he'd had to speak with her, other people had been in earshot, and so he devoutly hoped he could find her without any other close by, and that such a situation would make her more amenable to conversation.

When he entered the Keep, he paused and turned his head sharply, again catching that flicker of movement. And again, nothing was there but an empty shadow, even after his eyes adjusted to the change in light. Lips settling into a frown, he turned back to the corridor and hurried his steps, determined not to miss this chance. He slowed when he caught sight of her in a whispered conversation through a servant's door with none other than Livilla, whose long black braid was distinctive even from this distance.

He approached them quietly, hoping to catch a bit of their conversation, but what little he could hear seemed to be in the language of the Tevinter Imperium. ___Where on Thedas did they ever learn that language? Neither of them have a hint of an accent beyond a fluency in Orlesian._ It was but one of the many questions he needed to answer, but first he had to attend to the matter of security within the Keep - beginning with why the shadows seemed to have eyes ever since their arrival here.

As he came closer, he was grateful he'd spoken with Marie. Though he himself certainly did not consider scars a detraction from beauty, even he needed to pause a moment to take in the extent of the damage done to Livilla's face. Long experience and a bard's training enabled him to see the ghost of beauty which had once been there, but Marie had been correct in her surmise: it was an act of man - a sadistic, cruel man - that had inscribed those terrible lines onto the poor girl's face. A long ragged gash slashed from forehead to chin and cut through an empty eye socket, and burn scars melted the skin around her mouth and nose. The rest of her face and neck - what was visible - showed a careful pattern of cuts and slices, their placement making him wonder if there had been some kind of ritual beyond simple brutality. Combining those observations together with the fact that they spoke Tevene, he reached an inescapable conclusion:___Livilla had once been a Tevinter slave._

His thoughts were interrupted by the terribly impolite word which emerged from Isabeau's soft lips, and he watched as she took something from Livilla and stuffed it down her bodice. Ives suppressed a chuckle - ___that_would be fun to retrieve - and stepped forward, making a sound for the first time since entering the corridor. Isabeau whirled to face him, and he saw the fear on her face before it vanished, replaced by a far more welcoming smile of relief.

"___Bon~jour, Ma~dame_," he greeted her in a playfully singsong tone. "And you, ___mademoiselle._" The latter he directed to Livilla where she hovered in the doorway, though the florid bow he then executed was directed towards both of them as he theatrically bent at the waist. As he straightened, he shot the wide-eyed Livilla a heartbreaker's grin across his wide lips. "My mysterious damsel." If Livilla did not yet regret dawdling before her retreat, it came swiftly enough when he winked a baby blue eye at her. He knew well enough he'd made her heart flutter, jaded as she pretended to be, when her mouth opened slightly in a gasp. His smile deepened when she quickly closed the door, escaping his presence more easily than Isabeau could.

Ives turned his attention to his remaining audience, using as much of his bardic charm as he could muster to keep her from fleeing. "That was quite a performance today. A bull's eye! On the first shot! I will be singing about you some day." He came a little closer, taking her hand to delicately restrain her. Hoping to distract her from his true goal of information gathering, he deftly removed her glove and stroked the back of her hand idly with his thumb and forefinger, curious if she would recognize the gesture for what it was: the first foray in the Game of the Heart, a request for conversation that might or might not lead to further dalliance.

Her response fascinated him. It was clear she was familiar with it, given the way her gaze dropped down to where his fingers touched her as a small blush appeared on her cheeks. ___Ah, lala, so you _do___recognize the Game. Proof that you are certainly no peasant, no matter what your accent wants us to believe._ "Or perhaps," he continued, taking up the threads of the Game with a seductive drop in the pitch of his voice, "I will be singing ___to_ you."

Dark blue eyes rose to meet his, and he waited to see if she would deny her knowledge of the noble's Game or play along. Either reaction would be informative not only of her past, but of her character. When she bit her lip, he knew that she'd realized she'd been trapped into revealing more than she'd wanted to. When a smile settled over her lips, he suppressed a grin of his own, since it meant she'd decided to give up the pretense in order to distract ___him_ until she could escape.

___Ah, the more entertaining option. Delightful._

"I thank you for the compliment, Ser Durante," she simpered - quite convincingly, too. "That is indeed high praise from one of such renown as yourself." Her head tilted up so she could smile and bat her eyelashes at him, a pose which would have given him an excellent view of cleavage had she been in a typical Orlesian court gown. "My mother once told me that the blood of the Durantes runs hot, but their honor runs hotter and never bends. Tell me, Ser, how hot does your blood run?"

___Your mother, hmm? So, Isabeau de Brienne... born of noble blood, but on which side of the blanket? _His return wink was devilish, a gift seemingly bestowed by a Desire demon itself. He knew full well that he seethed charisma, but in this instance he used it for humor as much as for seduction. It was a combination he hoped would serve to distract her so he could steal past her normal conversational defenses. "___Ma chérie_, I think my brother stole all the honor away, so you should be cautious! I wouldn't wish to en___slave_ you with my charm, now, would I?" He deliberately accented the key word, gratified when her face paled ever so slightly. "That would be a most terrible crime, indeed."

"Indeed it would, Ser." Her hand tightened ever so slightly in his, and he saw her eyes dart to the side before returning to him. Her body shifted as she leaned in a bit towards him. "Yet would it not be quite the tragedy if you were ___caught_ in this dastardly act of seduction?"

He mulled over his response, trying to match the reason for the increased tension in her body with her own emphasis of words. So, Livilla had been a slave and escaped, and now they feared... her recapture? Though the medium was a trifle odd, Ives remained pleased that she was finally telling him what he needed to know, if he could but figure out how to ask the question. Slipping an arm around her waist so he could allow his eyes to glance to the side as hers had - though he saw only an empty shadow - he winked at her and replied, "Ah, lala, I fear not any man who would stand between us. I would strike them down with my rapier wit and devastating charm, and then sweep you away from all those that would ___seek_ such beauty to be within their arms!"

Admittedly, he was quite enjoying himself, both for the unexpected intrigue and because she ___was_ such a lovely warm bundle to have within his arms. ___Artana!_ he reminded himself sharply, and quickly spun them about, lowering her into a slight dip that not so incidentally put his body between her and most of the room. Such defense of her was an almost unconscious response to the sensation of being ___watched_, though he could not determine by whom and from where.

A giggle came from her as she reached up to lightly grip his shoulder, as if to counter the effect of being lowered. "Oh, Ser Durante, surely I am not the only young lady whose head you've turned. There must be___eyes_ upon you at all times." This time, her hand tightened when she said the key word, and her face was almost... ___pleading._ "Perhaps 'twould be best to release me and simply admire me from a ___distance_. I would be distraught were any ___harm_ to come to your poor, delicate heart, no?"

___What do you fear, _chérie? It was obvious now that she truly believed him to be in danger merely by lingering too close to her. "Well, I can admit to ulterior motives, after all. Yet I must ___also_ admit to a curious thing." He lowered her further still, shifting his grip so that one of his hands could come up and tease at the edge of her bodice, near where she'd stuffed her secret down its front. His eyes shifted back and forth, and he lowered his voice even further so it became more intimate, a mere murmur between them. "I've the most … niggling feeling we are simply not alone today. You wouldn't have an idea why that might be," his fingers came to a rest directly over where he suspected the object was, "would you, ___ma chérie_?"

Her wide eyes and guilty flush betrayed her: whatever she had hidden was directly related to the danger she'd warned him about. An expression of burgeoning panic crossed her face, and he saw that she was trying to figure out what she should do next, given the situation she'd allowed herself to be pulled into. He'd made outright fleeing quite difficult and the panic had set in too deeply for her to find any suitable words that might allay his feelings; he knew just how limited her options were. Hopefully, a confession would be forthcoming very shortly.

Apparently, she had one other option to try, a desperate move to be sure. Without any warning, she wrapped her hands around his head and drew him into a deep, intense kiss.

He had to admit some surprise, both at the action and at her expertise. His arm tightened around her and pulled her closer, and the hand already lying on her breast squeezed for a moment before he managed to regain control of himself. Quickly, while she was still concentrating on trying to distract him - a move, he conceded, that would have worked on most men with blood in their veins - his fingers slipped inside, ignoring the more tempting alternative in favor of his original objective. A piece of paper was wrestled from its hiding place and into his palm just as she released him, and Ives chuckled softly before he spoke. "You are admirable, and so very brave to play the Game with a Court Bard. Now … what is this?" He brought the paper he'd so skillfully extracted from beneath her bodice to the side of his face, raising a black brow in inquiry.

A hand gloved in black reached from behind him and snatched the offending piece of paper from his outstretched fingers. "___This_ is mine, Ser, and I would think you have better things to do than take advantage of impressionable young maidens in the very halls of your Order." The voice was dreadfully familiar, and Ives fought the urge to shudder as a cold sensation crept up his spine. A whisper of sound hinted at a retreat, but not before Isabeau had taken a single look at the newcomer and fainted dead away, hanging limp in Ives' embrace. Still, Ives was not daunted, and in fact his eyes rolled a little as he straightened up with the 'impressionable young maiden' still in his partial embrace.

"I don't suppose she's fainted at the sight of a mouse, hm?" No, Ives felt this was more likely to be that confusing set of eyes from the shadow. Now that he had a voice to go with it, he could put a profile and scar to the man as well, taken from the odd conversation in front of the Keep with the man he was certain was a killer. It was going to be complicated defending her with her weight on him, but he stood straight nonetheless. His right hand settled on the set of twin daggers that rested in a sheath on that side. Sadly it wouldn't be simple to draw them, but he'd just have to make do if it came to that. "Come out, ___souris, _I can barely see you."

A chuckle echoed in the hall, making it difficult to pinpoint the source. "No, I don't think I will." Abruptly a pouch landed in front of Ives and the still-unconscious Isabeau, the piece of paper he'd recently gained and lost tied to the string holding it shut like a flag announcing its presence. "I have accomplished what I came to do, after all. The poison that was on the paper has begun to take its effect. You have two choices, ___monsieur_. You can take that antidote and try to save the recruit and her little servant - as well as yourself - or you can try to follow me." A pause, followed by a silken whisper, "And you will never succeed."

"Question, if I may," Ives affected nonchalance out of habit, hoping the man would be more likely to betray information to his quarry if he sensed no fear. Shifting the unconscious dead weight on his arm, he leaned casually against the wall. "Well, two, actually, if you'll humor an apparently dying man. Firstly... why could you possibly want to kill someone so largely insignificant?"

"Such a low self-esteem issue you have, Ser. And here I thought the Durantes had better confidence than that," the other voice taunted. "Although, to be fair, I lied. That is no antidote to save you, as ___you_ will not suffer from the nature of this poison." Another pause, then a faint, "And your second question? It is so amusing when my shadow is talked to by someone who knows not where I am."

Having learned what he needed to with his eyes, Ives closed them, nodding a little as he listened to the questions. Abandoning the daggers, his free hand rose to rub his chin. "Ah, lala, I suppose it's true," he sighed with exaggerated melancholy and shrugged as best he could with just the one arm. "Perhaps I am off my game, no? Ahh, but yes! My second question. How many lives does a shadow have?" He pointed, and down the hall sounded a chirp from a crouched shadow of his own. The arrow that followed flew straight and true to the spot he'd indicated, and a whisper of cloth and a soft oath demonstrated his surmise had been correct. "I think not enough to remain in this Keep, no?"

Tension hung in the air before the voice responded. "A fair point. I'd forgotten how...___invigorating_ Wardens are in the hunt." A chuckle echoed softly in the hall, before the mysterious man gave his own parting shot: "I give you a boon, my friend, the gift of a third question I presume you would have asked. 'Tis no poison such as you know. I hope you were planning on having a Joining ceremony soon, as my little targets are now fighting the surge of the taint in their veins. Until next we meet, ___mon ami!_"

And then utter silence fell as the sensation of being watched simply ___vanished_.

"I should not have missed." Artana stepped forward, putting her bow over her shoulder even as she critiqued herself.

_"____Amour_, you are but one woman. You cannot solve every problem. Is it true, though? Can you see the so-called poison inside her?" Ives shifted, picking Isabeau up by swinging his right arm beneath her knees.

The elf's eyes glinted, much like a cat's in the dark. She channeled her own corruption so that she might sense it elsewhere... in Ives, on the paper, and creeping through the girl in his arms. The effort strained her enough that she quickly snapped her eyes shut once more, answering with a simple nod of the head.

Ives sighed. "Then we must do what we can. A shame, I wish she'd simply told us what stalked her. We should send a healer to look at her servant, to see if she might be saved without a Joining... At least Isabeau expected it soon enough."

"This stranger knowing our practice concerns me," Artana murmured, moving closer to draw the paper off the band of the pouch. If the poison was derived from the taint, it could certainly do her no more harm... few besides broodmothers or rotted ghouls passed the stage she was in now. "An odd mark. Are you familiar with it?" Ives glanced at it, but shook his head. A castle silhouetted in front of a full moon, though evocative, was unlike any heraldry or crest he'd ever encountered. "Then we will research this as best we can." A frown came to her face as she looked to the niche where her arrow had been directed. "The Joining is supposed to be a secret. In the past, even you were punished for leaking information to your brother."

Ives issued a half-shrug, the motion restricted by the woman in his arms. "Mm... Well, nonetheless, prepare a Joining. I will find a healer and check in on Livilla. We shall see what can be done, and if that paper tells us anything of use without Isabeau to enlighten us."

A few hours later, as he stared at the blank piece of paper Artana had handed to him with a frown and sigh of frustration, he shook his head and turned it over to look at the seal once more. In all his years as a Court Bard, he'd never come across the symbol, neither as a noble's crest nor as a merchant's sign. The paper had been but a conveyer of the taint, and an effective one at that.

He glanced at where the two women lay comatose in their beds, their chests barely moving. Artana had called in another Warden - a mage - to see what might be done to cure them, but it hardly took a minute for their fears to be confirmed. The Joining truly would be the only cure; the only way to bring the taint coursing through them under control. Ives set the paper back onto the table next to him, a frown once more on his face. ___This Game is unlike any I've played before. What could he possibly want?_

Never had the shadows seemed so dangerous.


	3. With This Blood

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Three: With This Blood...  
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A moan echoed in the room, woefully not of the fun sort.

Ives started from the half-sleep he'd settled into during his self-imposed vigil over Livilla and Isabeau, shaking his head to clear the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. His eyes automatically sought his two charges, and he surged from his chair when he realized one of them was moving. ___Thrashing_ might have been a more adequate description, her limbs twitching and flailing as if she were wrapped in the throes of a nightmare.

Quickly moving to Livilla's bedside, he knelt and offered what comfort he could, moving a hand over her hair and singing a soothing song, hoping to alleviate her stress. The terrible dreams of Grey Wardens were very familiar to him, after all, since he had experienced them so many times himself. Given the nature of the magic taint that ran through her veins, he was not at all surprised that she would experience them even before the Joining.

Then he heard it, and almost ___felt_ it: an odd keening sound, just on the cusp of hearing, echoing in the brightly lit room. He glanced around to make sure none of the candles had failed and no shadows had appeared. As he turned his head, his ears told him the source of the sound was, in fact, Livilla herself.

More specifically, the amulet around her neck.

As he pondered the oddity, the keening grew in volume, and he winced when the sound exerted a heavy pressure on his eardrums. He also noticed that as the volume increased, so too did Livilla's thrashing, her face contorting as if in pain. Worried, he reached out to touch the amulet, though the plan of what to do with it was still unformulated when his fingers wrapped around it.

The growl of a bear echoed shockingly loud around him, and abruptly he was flung across the room. The sensation of a large animal grabbing his collar and throwing him would not leave his mind even though no such beast was in sight. As he staggered to his feet, the door crashed open, revealing his brother standing in concerned wariness. "Ives! Are you all right? I thought I heard-" Jean stopped when another moan came from the bed. "I- I will fetch the healer-"

"Not yet. She is having dreadful nightmares, but that is hardly unexpected, ___non?_ As for the rest-" He shrugged. "In that, I know as little as you." Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he froze, eyes widening.

"Ives?"

"Ah, lala, ___nnh_ - a moment." He brought his hand down and stared at the streak of red on his fingers. "I must have hit the wall harder than I thought."

Jean came over to see the wound himself, carefully lifting the queue of long hair aside to look at the neck underneath. "If I had to guess, I would say those look like teeth marks." Ives felt a cloth press against his neck. "Keep the pressure on this. I am getting a healer. You both might need it." Earnest face creased with concern, he hurried from the room.

Holding the kerchief in place, he returned to kneel next to Livilla's bed. The keening sound had stopped, he realized, and she seemed to have quieted a bit. Her face, though taut, was no longer agonized. Ives sighed, a soft, mournful sound which had nothing to do with his new and peculiar injuries. Rather, it perfectly matched the gleaming of moisture in his gentle blue eyes as he scanned her face. "I wish you could tell me what occurred." With a gentle touch, he reached out and traced the line of one of the scars on her face. "And what monster did this to you."

He pulled his hand away when she stirred, surprised. On the advice of the healer, Artana had moved the date of the next Joining from a week hence to this very afternoon; and even then, the healer was not completely certain they would survive. Certainly she'd been dismissive of any notion they might recover on their own. Yet even as he watched, Livilla's eyelid fluttered open and she gasped when she saw him. Her hand batted at his as she started back, stopping only when she reached the edge of the bed.

"Ah, not to fret, ___mademoiselle!_ Though I could say that it is 'only me,' I suppose it wouldn't do you much good in such a tired state, no?" Ives smiled in a charming manner, trying to calm her. "Ives Durante, at your everlasting service."

She blinked, hastily looking around the room as if expecting something - or some___one_ - else, and then sagged as the tension left her body. "I- You startled me is all, lout." With seeming effort, she attained a sitting position, refusing to meet his gaze as she pushed the blanket away and rearranged her hair to once more cover the worst of the scars on her face. "What happened?" Her eye widened as she looked beyond Ives. "Is that Isabeau? Is she all right?" When she tried to climb across the bed, her arm folded and collapsed under her, landing her flat on the mattress.

Quickly he moved next to her and helped her sit up. She started to pull away, but he insisted on staying near her. "You were both poisoned by a mysterious letter. Until you awoke, we feared for your lives." He scrutinized her carefully as she took a shuddering breath. "You know, it would be quite helpful if you could tell us more about who left that letter - or why you are able to awaken from this tainted curse and Isabeau is not."

She looked away from him, the muscles in her jaw rippling. "I want to check on her."

With a sigh, he released her and watched her make her shaky way to Isabeau's side. Experience told him she would reveal nothing to him he did not already know. The dynamics between the two confused him at times - sometimes it seemed Livilla was in charge, and other times Isabeau determined their course of action.

He stood just as Jean and the healer returned, watching with silent concern during the flurry of activity that followed as he absently rubbed his arms against the chill from the shadows outside the doorway.

.~^~.

The Joining Room of the Orlesian Keep was ornate, built Ages previously when the Grey Wardens held a place of much higher esteem in the society of Orlais. Though not technically a religious institution, this particular room had the air of ritual, with an altar set in front of a mosaic relief detailed in gold leaf. The ceiling was painted in fresco, and the stone floors were draped with thick rugs - though the latter were not simply for decoration. The thick doors did what they could, but if people heard screams, murder, or dead weight hitting the ground, it would be impossible to maintain calm and secrecy.

The Joining of two other recruits had been moved up as well, since Archdemon blood - the crucial catalyst in the potion that waited within the Joining Chalice - seemed to be in ever shorter supply these days. Even though the recruits trained, ate and slept in close proximity to the Wardens, however, they still did not know the true risks the Joining ritual entailed.

A blissful ignorance not shared with the Durante twins, who stood honor guard at the large doors every time Artana presided over the ritual. As Artana spoke the same words she had used at every previous Joining, Ives hefted the crossbow on his shoulder and sent a silent prayer to the Maker that ___this_ time, he would not need to use it. He glanced at Jean, noting that his brother dealt with the strain of potential loss by holding a familiar book in his hands, a small illuminated manuscript of the Chant. Ives knew that Jean found greater comfort in the words of the Prophet than he, but part of the easement in this case also derived from who had previously owned that particular manuscript.

He turned his eyes back to the still form upon which Jean had focused and grimaced. Isabeau lay on the padded bench which had served as her stretcher to the Joining Room, her long black hair lovingly braided by Livilla in the last moments before they had been brought here. Livilla herself stood silently next to Isabeau, her hands gripping a small toy of a griffon: an oddly appropriate, if a trifle whimsical, addition to the upcoming events. Though Artana had been cautiously pleased to hear that Livilla had woken on her own, the anger from the almost entirely silent fight that had ensued when Livilla had refused to explain ___how_ that had been possible still lingered, adding a subtle tension to the events.

___Ah, lala, if only you would speak to us._ For another moment, he considered Livilla, who was now clutching the amulet he'd seen earlier and was silently mouthing words of her own in counterpart to Artana's declamations. His neck smarted with the memory of the pain he'd experienced when he'd touched that piece of jewelry, and again he wondered at its significance. ___Perhaps Artana knows more. I must remember to ask her after..._

Again, he shifted the weight of the crossbow, his duty heavier each time he came into this chamber. Though he knew Jean was willing to help, only Ives had the requisite skill to ensure a quick, painless death... should it become necessary.

___Please, Maker, let it not be necessary. It's as good a moment as any to prove you _do___listen, after all. The last nine corpses from my bolts were a trifle disheartening when all I really wanted was just to _not___have to commit a sin, no? _He sighed softly, trying to not be irreverent to the ceremony, but wondering how far his faith - once rather strong and comforting - had fallen to be so jaded.

As Artana reached the last words spoken before taking up the chalice, he mouthed them along with her silently, knowing without looking that Jean was doing the same. "...And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you." He watched as Artana gave a solemn nod and turned to the altar, wrapping her hands around the base of the ornate chalice that held the liquid that was both bane and curse to all Grey Wardens.

Though to Isabeau, he hoped it was naught but the drink of life.

Artana held out the goblet to the recruits, and Ives silently brought the crossbow into a more ready position, watching like a hawk as the two young men standing before Artana exchanged a nervous glance to decide who would partake first. "Step forward and drink," she commanded when the hesitation lasted a moment too long.

The more fearless of the two nodded resolutely and stepped forward to take the vessel from Artana, quickly tipping the glass so that he got a mouth full of the noxious liquid. Ives winced. ___Even I wasn't quite that eager to prove my courage._ The smell alone had almost made him gag ___before_ he'd taken a sip. ___That's it, lad._

Jean had stepped forward, careful to stay out of Ives' line of sight as he prepared for ___his_unspoken duty. When the brave recruit staggered, Jean quickly rescued the chalice from the lad's grasp and caught his arm, easing him down to the ground in a controlled fashion. It had only taken one nasty bump off the edge of the table before Artana had implemented ___that_ policy.

Still, the collapse didn't help the second recruit find his own courage. He gulped heavily, bump on his throat dancing, as Jean handed the precious Chalice back to Artana. His nerves were obviously stretched to their limit.

Artana regarded him calmly, even as Ives frowned and readied the crossbow once more. "You must drink, or forfeit your life. Only Grey Wardens may leave this room alive." Ives knew that Artana chose her wording with care, since she had not been given the same clarity at her own Joining - but then, her situation had been as desperate as Isabeau's was now. It was more dignified to speak simply and straight to the point, respecting his presence as a warrior. "Become our brother, or take these words to an early grave."

Sadly, he chose the latter in the end. With a heavy sigh, Ives tightened his finger on the trigger, trying to mentally distance himself from the bolt that leapt from his weapon to take the boy's life. Once the deed was done, the bard closed his eyes and lowered his crossbow. ___Perhaps He chose not to listen. I was rather unfair. _Artana's voice echoed in the room as she solemnly murmured a short invocation to Falon'din on behalf of the poor shemlen, again invoking wonder in him. Her faith was yet strong, even after this harrowing time away from her clan and culture.

Gently Livilla placed the worn and worried griffon on Isabeau's barely moving chest, then turned and held out her hands, silently requesting the chalice. With a serious face, she drew in a slow breath before tipping it back, taking a mouthful and swallowing it quickly.

Ives watched her carefully even as Jean stepped forward and retrieved the goblet, but she seemed to have no particular reaction other than a wrinkled noise. "That was... unpleasant." As she retrieved the griffon from where it lay on Isabeau, she worked her tongue around her mouth and shuddered. "Certainly that is among the most noxious of brews I've ever been forced to drink."

An eyebrow each rose on both twins' faces. ___Among_ the most? Ives had never tasted anything as abhorrent as the Joining concoction. Adding yet another question to the internal list of inquiries to pursue, he pushed the curiosity from his mind as Jean gave the drink back to Artana (who was, in his eyes, ___adorably _taken aback at Livilla's seeming nonchalance) for the final recruit.

It was a shame that the last to drink today had no true choice in the matter. Artana took the chalice from Jean and brought it to Isabeau's lips, tipping her head to aid her in taking a sip from the silver goblet. Silence and bated breath permeated the room as they all hoped and feared simultaneously what effect the liquid would have on the woman who but seemed to be in peaceful slumber. The silence was broken when Isabeau suddenly gasped, her hand lashing out and knocking the vessel from Artana's hands.

Another gasp rang through the room before Livilla rushed to her friend's side, taking Isabeau's head between her hands as the latter started to convulse wildly. She began to murmur encouragement, yet this time, the words were not Tevinter, but ___elvish._ Ives blinked, then looked at Artana, noting the narrowed eyes with which his beloved regarded the woman who looked entirely human beneath her scars. Still... ___A former Tevinter slave who speaks elvish... The slave raiders often raid the coasts up north. Ah, Livilla, you do not hail from Orlais, that is _most___certain._

He was distracted from his thoughts as it became clear Isabeau's convulsions were getting worse, not better. In fact, even as he began to offer yet another prayer to the seemingly uncaring Maker, he heard Livilla's tone change from comforting words to the more stately pace of an invocation, and her hands moved to hover over Isabeau's heart.

A faint white glow began to emanate from her hands, covering first Isabeau's torso and then spreading over her entire body. Ives took an inadvertent step back; he recognized magic - ___powerful_ magic, at that - when it was right in front of him. ___A former Tevinter slave who speaks elvish and is a mage... Maker, could Montfort not have given us greater warning? No wonder the Tevinter agents are after her! _The light flared once, then faded, leaving Isabeau at rest once more, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

After a few seconds, her eyes fluttered open. Though she seemed to be fighting a powerful lethargy, she met Livilla's eye and whispered weakly, "Martin?"

Livilla nodded.

"I am not dead?"

With a smile, Livilla shook her head.

"Then... then I was right..."

___Martin..._ Ives filed away the man's name for further questioning later. ___That must be the name of their little shadow - and the last person she saw before succumbing to the taint's poison. Martin, Martin..._ The name in and of itself meant little to him without more information, and as he met Artana's gaze, he knew without asking what his next task would be. The pair still presented far too many mysteries, and she did not like uncertainties under her command.

As for Artana herself, he was just glad to see her face intent on the questions at hand rather than in mourning. It would weigh heavily on her already to have one recruit dead at the Joining. The sad outcome occurred frequently enough to make him feel grateful that Jean would be there for her tonight rather than himself. His twin had that remarkable aura of gentility that fit into situations such as this, whereas Ives' flowery words and extravagant declarations tended to irritate Artana. ___If ever she decides to finally choose..._Now, however, was not the time to consider it.

When Livilla finally relinquished her place at Isabeau's side, Ives rubbed his hands together with a grin that was only slightly forced. "Well, little miracles, at the least." Ives moved to Livilla as Jean opened the door to allow some grim faced Wardens into the Joining Room to attend to the two bodies: one to the infirmary, and the other to be taken to the Chapel for prayer and cremation after a 'training accident'. Exchanging the briefest of nods with them, Ives arrived at her side and gingerly rested his hand on the scarred woman's shoulder. "I think I can lift her."

He wasn't surprised when she jerked away from him, though she used the movement to retrieve the little griffon toy she'd dropped to the floor in her mad dash to Isabeau's side.___You have many secrets, _ma chérie___. I pray Isabeau is more inclined to talk than you when she awakens a Grey Warden._

Artana divided them all to tasks, the aftermath of a Joining requiring as much work as the preparation. Ives bent to retrieve Isabeau so as to take her back to the room that had been set aside for them in the part of the Keep reserved for the Grey Wardens.

One way or another, he would find what he needed.

.~^~.

Ives wasn't sure precisely how long he'd been playing, but he knew it was at least counted in hours. He'd begun with the flute, playing until his lips chapped, and moved next to a gorgeous, twelve-stringed lute that was quite clearly an heirloom. At this point his calloused fingertips were beginning to sting, but he could go a while longer. To help himself ignore the strain he played with his eyes closed, relaxing as best he could while still stealing peeks here and again at Isabeau.

He hadn't been entirely alone the entire time, of course. Jean had come in and with stern looks and silent gestures implored him to eat or sleep, then sighed and given up when he saw Ives was intent on his task. His lovely wood nymph had also come to see Isabeau's progress, particularly after the other new Grey Warden had awoken, shaken and starving, from his transformative sleep. Though she had only frowned when she'd seen that Isabeau had not stirred, Artana had nodded at Ives in tacit approval of his decision to remain at her side. And of course, Livilla...

Livilla was no trouble. While she wasn't in any way conversational, she'd been largely receptive to his presence. At the least she didn't run him out of the room, and one time when he cracked his weary eyes open, he even caught her looking at him. It had been dreadfully hard not to smile. Somewhere along the line Livilla had decided she trusted Ives enough to leave him alone with Isabeau. He paid more attention to all of the subtle motions in Isabeau - every twitch, every frown, every bead of sweat, and how bad they were each time he stole a glance.

An oddity of Livilla was her obsession with keeping the room well-lit. Every time a candle died, she'd run out to get a new one to replace it, until eventually a blond manservant with a resigned expression on his face had followed her back, put a box of unused candles next to her bed, and left. The room glowed with the light of the middle of the day, and no shadows were allowed anywhere near the slumbering woman.

He was beginning to feel like he was witnessing a Fade-tale.

It helped to ease the chill, at any rate. The suite was stonewalled, as was the rest of the Keep, with just two thin windows on the western wall to let in the light as it changed over the course of his vigil. Though the ever-increasing candlelight made it harder to tell, Ives___thought_ it was approaching sunset - which meant that he'd been here for almost a full day. ___No wonder I am so weary._ Yet he continued, though he allowed the long notes in his music to stretch a bit more than usual to spare his fingers as much as he could.

When the door opened one more time, he glanced up and blinked with surprise as Marie bustled into the room. Quickly she directed the blond man who accompanied her to put his burden on the table next to Isabeau, and Ives only had a moment to recognize the typical post-awakening feast of the largest leg of poultry the Keep could find - an ongoing joke of long-forgotten origin - and a strong cordial to take the taste of the Joining away. After that, Marie placed herself in front of Ives, holding a glass of water to his lips until he reluctantly drank. Granted, it ___did_ taste most marvelous on his parched throat, and it gave him an opportunity to wink and blow a kiss at her when he was done, but he would have preferred to have drank with Isabeau. Yet Marie was a stern mistress, making sure he drank the full glass before settling it on the floor next to a pitcher with more water in it.

Marie leaned over and patted his cheek. "The beauty always awakens at sunset or sunrise in the tales. Have faith, my lad." The words were soft, but he saw the concern in her face, a concern that did not leave when she straightened and turned to embrace Livilla. Quiet but firm, she put her arm around Livilla and pointed to the door and whispered to her at length. With a sigh and a nod, Livilla stuck the griffon toy of mysterious origin beneath the pillow on her own bed - hind end sticking out, Ives noted with amusement - and went with Marie.

Not long after that, the first signs of fluttering eyelashes danced in one of his stolen glimpses. His guess was that she must have been in the throes of The Nightmares - the ones that all Wardens experienced from their Joining until the very end. A faint, grating song, dark ruins, and hordes of vile, gruesome Darkspawn, calling you to join them...

His eyes opened again as he heard the blanket shift. Isabeau was shivering as she awoke, and he saw that her eyes almost instantly sought out the lute, as if it were the source of her discomfort. Her reaction was so strange that he frowned, for it made little sense to him why she would shiver yet again and force her eyes closed once more. Did this Martin he'd been learning so much about play a lute as well? Was he a bard, and not simply a dark rogue lurking around the streets? These thoughts were all shattered and lost when he heard her struggle with the horrible flavor the Joining had left on her tongue, a sympathetic smile turning up his lips.

"Ah, lala, if you had but parted your lips for me ___this_ time, I might have been able to wash that foul taste away for you. There is no doubt something very strong in that glass besides you, though. To the right, just there." He watched for any sign of complications as she struggled into a half-sitting position, but saw nothing out of the ordinary for a new Grey Warden fresh out of the 'Deep Sleep,' as it was known. "Ah, and I might suggest you eat. If you don't make the first move, I believe it very well may try and eat you first. I'll simply continue to be the soothing background music - I would hate to encourage dinner without an entertaining meal."

He wasn't fooled when she played nonchalant, the little tickle of pink on her otherwise drained pallor quite obvious to him. Admirably, she managed to hold the contents of her stomach down while swishing her cordial and clearing her tongue, then followed it with a shot for good measure. He chuckled, watching her take in the room - the ___large_ room, with___two_ beds, as opposed to her small one, with a bunk - and how her belongings had been brought as well. The way she smiled when she noticed the griffon doll on Livilla's bed made him surmise there might have been a purpose behind Livilla's odd placement of the toy.

His eyebrows rose in anticipation of a question as she turned back towards him, the telltale signs on her face as she drew in a breath. Whatever she was ___about_ to say stood no chance against the hunger that had just dug in on her, causing her to rather savagely attack the capon. He chuckled just in time for Livilla to enter once more and eye him suspiciously before realizing that Isabeau had woken. That clearly trumped all else in this hand, and she nearly ran to the woman's bedside, discarding the towel wrapped around her wet hair along the way.

"Awake at last, I see," Livilla said quietly. Ives innocently ignored the way she glared at him yet again, unwilling to give them privacy just yet. When he didn't move or stop plucking at his strings, she shook her head and concentrated on her friend. "What do you last remember?"

Isabeau frowned as she chewed thoughtfully, and didn't respond until the bone of the leg had been set aside and the last mouthful was swallowed. "I'm not sure. I-," she ventured, then threw Ives a look that startled him. "I remember this lout taking advantage of my innocence."

And the startle continued! His fingers struck a sour chord on the lute. Shocked or not, he hadn't made such a mistake in most of a decade, so he could only hope it wasn't too obviously done for dramatic effect. "I would ___never!_ Why, I can't even think to know when or what it is that has you so misguided, ___chérie_. I was positively saintly the past days with such lovely ladies as yourself moved to new quarters, ___so_ much closer to my own. I ___barely_so much as kissed you!" He huffed a sigh, shifting his head as to toss his hair in a theatrically aggrieved manner.

"___I_ seem to remember," Isabeau continued despite his outburst, and he pouted grandly as he saw Livilla roll her eye, "some tongue, and wandering fingers." Her hands had tightened around the blanket enough that Ives could see it bunch, her knuckles white and manner guilty to Livilla's narrowed eye. Ives knew there was more, but she dismissed it with a whisper. "Nothing worth remembering, really."

That was best left without lingering, so Ives began to pluck an upbeat tune on the lute, blowing a raspberry with his tongue. Jester was a role that suited him rather well for the purposes of espionage. "Well, then I didn't remember it either. I'm sure softer breasts exist___somewhere_ in the world." He was glad, honestly, that she'd received the memo that he took well to teasing. As far as being a martyr went, it was among the easiest things to offer in the name of a laugh. If only the negative emotion lingering in the air wasn't so much stronger than what his bardic tune could manipulate, he would have aimed to have her dancing.

Sadly, in the interest of the Keep, Ives just couldn't allow them to continue teasing him forever - or was it the other way around? His upbeat music was serving part of its purpose in that the tension in the room had relaxed a trifle, yet he was no closer to his true goal than before. Isabeau had fainted in this Martin's presence - and it wasn't entirely the fault of the tainted letter. "Ah, lala," he sighed, truly hating to have to ask it. "Much as I hate to darken the mood once more, surely you can agree that there remain matters to be discussed." He sighed as the mood shifted once more. "To start with: Martin?"

Isabeau grimaced and looked away. "He's not evil, you know."

Livilla snorted and let go, moving to sit on her own bed. "This we have argued about already, and we will never agree. I do not understand how you can fear him so, and yet wish him no harm."

No answer came from Isabeau as she simply folded her hands and studied them intently.

With a shake of her head, Livilla turned to Ives, addressing him directly for the first time. "His name was Martin de Brienne, though he came not to the name by birth. He was taken in by Isabeau's parents. Later, he left, taking the name Martin duGuerre. I did not meet him until only a few years ago, and Isabeau refused to even-"

"Don't!" The warning was issued with a commanding tone, and the two women exchanged a tense, wordless glare, the closest to open rancor between them Ives had ever witnessed.

Interestingly, in this matter Livilla surrendered first. "I... Perhaps I have a bias, since our first meeting involved an attempt to kill me."

"Well, that ___would_ cause a bias," Ives supposed, somewhat amused despite the serious nature of the conversation. "So why does he hunt you, and how did it bring you, ultimately, to the Wardens? We are not the most … average of havens for any but criminals, after all." He held back from saying more, since he'd made a rather large leap from knowing Martin plagued them to assuming the rogue had something to do with their entrance into the ranks of the Wardens.

Isabeau became even more interested in the blanket in her hands, and Livilla frowned as she sat down on her own bed, back rigid. "He didn't chase us into your welcoming arms, lout. For all his persistence, he's nothing we can't handle perfectly well on our own."

Ives glanced around at the many candles Livilla had lit, then back to her, eyebrow raised. "Ah, ___oui,_ how foolish of me to think you were but helpless maids. However, you must admit that perhaps affairs have reached a point where you can no longer rely only upon yourselves? After all, you are not alone, not anymore." When no answer was forthcoming, he altered the melody of his lute once more, from lively to soothing. A slight movement from Isabeau drew his attention, and he noticed her eyes were now on his fingers, as if entranced, and he was fairly certain it was not the music that held her so. "So, if Martin cannot be spoken of then perhaps we should speak of other trifles. Dead bodies, perhaps, in front of the Keep? That, I assure you, is ___not_ a usual occurrence."

Isabeau grimaced. "I would wager that was Martin," she sighed. "He has an odd sort of... jealousy, if you can call it that, towards us."

"You mean he doesn't want anyone else to hunt us, not even my-" Livilla quickly bit off her words, shooting Ives a quick glance.

"Your former Master?" Ives guessed, and Livilla's glare proved him correct. "So, if he cannot hurt you, no one can? An odd stance, to be sure. There must be quite the history." Again the music shifted, this time from soothing to poignant.

Isabeau swallowed harshly and finally looked at Ives rather than the obviously ___fascinating_blanket. "Until I was seven, he was the one I loved most in the world," she whispered. "Martin de Brienne... my parents accepted him into their care when he was but an infant, before I was born. They never treated him like anything but a son, and I was a truly beloved sister to him."

"Hm." Ives considered this information and drew from his experience where he imagined she was leading him. "This particular arrangement has caused heartache in many an Orlesian family, ___oui_? Not at all to call your situation orthodox... Clearly, your case is a most exceptional overabundance of heartache. Did he ... covet the fortune, resent your birth? Or was he scorned somehow and took a turn for the worse? Whatever you will tell, I will listen."

"I could wish for it to be so simple," she whispered. "I could wish I knew exactly what ___did_happen. When I was seven, he- My parents-" Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. Ives frowned, trying to imagine what could be so terrible, but waited for Isabeau to continue. "I woke one morning and found my parents dead, and Martin gone. The servants did what they could, but-"

Livilla moved to Isabeau's side when she broke down, gathering her friend into her arms. "Nothing can ease the broken heart of a lost family, lout," she said softly. The nickname had lost any sting and seemed more habit than anything. Her hand smoothed over Isabeau's hair as she murmured empty words to her friend, trying to calm through tone and touch. "Isabeau thought him dead, too, until he reappeared years later - to try to kill me. As I said, it wasn't the best of introductions."

Allowing a smile to come to his lips, Ives shook his head. "No, I suppose it was not." He had let the music lapse, sensing he would not need it for a short while, and gratefully put the lute down so he could stretch his hands. He managed to keep the wince of pain from his face as his fingertips started to complain at his overly ambitious performance length. "And you know nothing of what happened to him in the interim?"

"I- No, ___I_ do not." The nuance puzzled Ives, hinting that Isabeau might know more, but Livilla gave him no opportunity to query as she continued, "Well, not ___certain_ knowledge. We know he has a Master, and that Martin obeys the man without question. I do not know the extent of his operations, but we saw him only infrequently. I always assumed he traveled extensively." Isabeau, whose sobs had subsided, stirred as she wiped the tears from her face, but said nothing. "And honestly, he was not our main problem in Montfort. He was an annoyance, particularly for me, but no more than that." Again, Ives sensed some half-truths mixed in with the truth, but thought it wiser to let her speak. Even half-truths held information for a discerning mind. "No, it was not Isabeau's past that haunted us in Montfort."

He nodded as he made the leap of logic himself. "I've heard that Magisters can be quite insistent in regaining their property, when it is valued enough. More fools, they, to think they can ___own_ a person. Is it because you are a mage?" Ives recalled reading once that blood mages placed a higher value on thralls who were also mages, though he could not recall why.

Now it was Livilla's turn to hesitate before answering, and Isabeau took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. After a deep breath, Livilla replied, "In part, though that is not the whole of it." Patting Isabeau's hand as if to indicate she was all right, she turned to Ives, eye narrowed in speculation. "Your hands must hurt."

"Ah, a bit," he said, puzzled by the seeming non sequitur. "Give me a few hours and it will pass. It is not the first time I have played for so long, though never before have I exerted myself for such an enchanting audience." His eyelid dropped into a tired, but playful, wink.

She grunted. "I wish you wouldn't-" Stopping herself with a shake of the head, she focused her gaze on Ives' hands. Without any warning, the black of her eye suddenly turned white, and an intense sensation of pins and needles swept through his arms. He gasped as goose pimples rose, and rubbed at his forearms vigorously to diminish the sensation. As her eye faded back to black, he realized that his hands were completely healed, and more - even the overtaxed muscles in his shoulders and his strained voice felt completely refreshed.

Stretching his arms overhead, he marveled at how ___good_ the motion felt, when just a few seconds before he had been silently plotting an extended soak in the mineral springs in the Deeps of the Keep. "___That_ is ___remarkable_. I do not know how powerful our mages here in the Keep are, but I've rarely experienced a healing executed with so little effort for such a phenomenal result. Beauty must enhance your-"

_"____Stop _that," she suddenly snapped. "I am perfectly aware of my appearance. You don't need to-" Isabeau's gentle touch halted her words, and after another moment of silently glaring at Ives, her face twisted. Turning to her friend, she buried her head in Isabeau's lap, unaware of the way Isabeau seemed to measure Ives with her eyes.

"Ever since she arrived at Montfort, they have been after her," Isabeau said quietly. "I___personally_ suspect that Martin actually aided in intercepting some of them, but always there were at least one or two a year. Last year-" She paused as Ives began to work at the buckles and clasps of his armor, but continued when he nodded for her to continue. "Last year, Giselle said they were more persistent. A group of them managed to get past the outer defenses and infiltrate the living area of the Keep. Two Wardens were killed in the struggle, and Giselle decided that it would be better for Montfort if we were-"

"Someone else's problem?" Ives raised an eyebrow as he set his bracers on the floor and began working at the laces that kept his shirt closed. "At Montfort, if I recall correctly, the Keep is far enough away from the city proper that there is a bit of laxity regarding security, I would imagine. And it is in the middle of Orlais - hardly a target for invaders! Vigilant against Darkspawn, but not much more."

"Precisely. Val Royeaux is better suited for someone to... disappear." She sighed. "Or so we had hoped. Now I wonder if they just wanted to scare us out. Our journey was designed to prevent anyone from intercepting us, but once in the city..."

"They must have had an agent here already, watching the gate," Livilla said, voice soft at first. Clearing her throat as she sat up, she added, "Since everyone has to go through the Sun Gates, they would only need one agent to watch for us here."

"Pity you did not know any smugglers," Ives mused. "There is always another way into any city. Even Kirkwall. And since the agent has been disposed of, no matter the source of said disposition, we can hope that at least that danger is now less pressing - for a while." Tugging the last of his laces aside, he removed his leather vest and began tugging his shirt out of his waistband.

"What are you ___doing_, lout?" Livilla demanded in an exasperated tone, though apparently her irritation was mild enough that she did not take her eye off of him.

"Ah, but I must do my part to lay to rest these silly insecurities which afflict you." The tunic came off in one smooth motion, and the goose pimples returned with a vengeance as the cool air touched so much of his skin. He watched their eyes widen with some measure of satisfaction, even if his pride reluctantly admitted it was for an entirely different reason than if he had been, say, his far more muscular brother. As his finger lightly traced the scars - three long, parallel lines - which extended from his navel to his chest, he kept his gaze on Livilla. "May I suggest two things? One, do not underestimate a shriek - they are most pernicious and deadly, and far swifter than you might think. And two, ___ma chérie_, do not underestimate me, mmm? Fair?"

He dropped his hand as she stood and walked to where he sat, surprised when she knelt in front of him. This close, with the light so bright, he could see each and every line on her face, noticing for the first time that some of them looked to carry on even under her hair.___Would that I could return the favor to the ones who did that to you._ Keeping his face smooth of the anger within, he said softly, "May we consider these terribly harsh glares a thing of the past? You break my heart so, and as you can see," he gestured to the topmost point of one of of the scars, "the poor thing is already so close to the surface."

Her eye stayed fixed on his scars, head tilting as she contemplated them. They were certainly nasty scars - the only reason he still lived was because a mage had been with them that day. With delicate fingers, she reached out and traced them, skipping between the three lines with a light touch. Finally she placed her splayed hand over his heart and moved her gaze up to meet his. He had thought her glares intense, but now he almost felt as if he couldn't breathe before the weight now upon him through the eye contact. "Very well, lout. No more harsh glares. But," and here her hand balled into a fist before leaving his chest as she rose to her feet, "do ___not_ pretend that I am beautiful."

With that, she left the room.

Isabeau, meanwhile, looked to the door which Livilla had left open behind her. "She... she doesn't like to be called pretty. In fact, the only man she's ever taken to her bed was blind. I wonder that she will ever accept those words from anyone."

Ives shrugged and began the process of restoring his clothing. "One day, she will see that I am not lying when I say I see her beauty. The heart is a most powerful thing - next to words, that is - and I firmly believe one should only say what they believe to a friend. Call me an old romantic."

"Oh, I'll call you more than that," she said lightly, a bit of her humor returning.

"Ah, lala, surely you do not seek to wound me with your cruel, cruel words!" he protested. "I am but a humble-" Ignoring the snort of disbelief, he persisted. "-___humble_ man who seeks to help his fellow Wardens whenever possible."

Her face froze. "Fellow-" Ives grinned as she glanced around the room, truly ___registering_the fact that she and Livilla now each had large, comfortable beds instead of a bunk - in a room with a window, no less, a luxury to which recruits were certainly not privy - before turning back to him with a look of wonder on her face. "I thought- well, I'm not quite sure___what_ I thought when I woke up, aside from that horrid taste and wondering why you were here." She bit her lip. "What happened?"

His expression softened as he moved to sit next to her on the bed. She deserved to know all he could tell her, and so he put his arm around her and began to weave the tale of what had happened as a result of that cursed paper.

And outside the open door, the shadows waited.


	4. The Noble Knight

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Four: The Noble Knight**

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_The lance drew closer, the fierce drumming of hooves enough to throw even the most experienced of warriors into an anxious frenzy. Though the dusky blue ribbon danced in his sights along the haft of the lance, there was something in the air, a tang of ominence. Something was simply _wrong_. His intuition proved true - his opponent's lance slipped, its angle changed, and the wound that followed seared and strained unlike anything he had felt before. _

Jean woke with a start, clutching his right shoulder. Though the pain still echoed from that near-crippling wound most of a decade ago, it was not the source of the hot tears that dripped from his weary eyes. He sighed, looking to the window, then to the vacant bed on his right, and again to the window. The night had not been what he could call restful, and now it was nearly dawn. Ives hadn't returned, which likely meant his business with Artana the previous evening had extended to the morning - a not unusual occurrence. Wicking the tears one more time with his calloused thumb, he resigned himself to waking and tossed aside his tangled blankets.

Normally he would be sure his bedroom was in proper order before leaving - at the least more so than to lovingly adjust the small prayer book on his nightstand, fingers lingering over the dusky blue ribbon which he used as its bookmark. Normally he would prepare himself for a brisk morning routine of some sort to keep himself spry. Today he could only watch the sun rise between the buildings of the Orlesian skyline and see _her_ face in the beams. Today he dressed ritualistically, drawing finery from the dresser top where his brother had left it neatly folded for him. It all took so much longer than it should, his usual energy and lust for life left in the Fade upon his waking.

At breakfast he ate little, and his smile was a practice of habit. Recruits and fellow Wardens asked him to sit and chat or to engage in sundry exercises in the courtyard, but Jean had retreated into his own mind. It took deliberate prodding to get a response from him, until he finally apologized and excused himself from the room. So listless was he in his own motions that it even earned him a concerned call of "Where are you sneaking off to?" even if he wasn't really 'sneaking' anywhere.

Even Isabeau, though receiving by far the most genuine smile he'd offered that morning, got very little from him when she requested a moment of his time in the hall. In the days since her Joining, she'd begun to come out of her shell, often eating lunch with Jean and dinner with Ives. Jean was aware that Ives had commented on the absence of lurking shadows of late, but at the moment, such an observation meant little to him. Still, Isabeau seemed far more relaxed than she had been since her arrival - at least, until she got a good look at his face.

Her hand settled on his arm as she looked up at him, a line appearing between her eyebrows. Early as it was, she was obviously returning from the baths, since her long hair was wet and only loosely braided, framing her face with several straggling tendrils. Her dark blue eyes met his as she squeezed his arm gently. "Restless night?"

"I expected it," he replied without elaboration, looking beyond her - admittedly an easy thing to do with her diminutive height. He didn't move past her, but he wasn't giving her his full attention, either. "How have you been getting along with your Brothers and Sisters here?"

"A little better now that I leave my room once in a while," she said with a smile, but it faded as she kept looking at his face. "Livilla spends most of her time in the apothecary, but I've tried to get out and about. Ives even took me into the city once or twice." She frowned, then shook her head. "He was a perfect gentleman, of course, but perhaps I should have asked you to come along. Sometimes he's a bit... distracted."

He understood that perfectly well. More than just for the fact his thoughts were elsewhere in this precise moment, there were sound reasons for either twin to pay more attention than others to what happened in the city of Val Royeaux. Their family had spent decades perfecting the art of being untouched by the Orlesian Game that swallowed so many other legacies whole. "I apologize, then, because I am no better myself right now. I will have to offer... ah... what is the word," he murmured, looking down at his feet for a moment as he pondered it, "I'll have to make..." At least he'd gotten her to laugh lightly, he supposed, with his bumbling over vocabulary.

"You _need _do nothing. I'll just try again at a later time, perhaps with someone else. I just thought- Well, it doesn't matter, I suppose. Although..." Suddenly she seemed a bit nervous. "Well, I actually stopped you to ask if you had time this afternoon for some training. I've sparred against some of the other Wardens, but..." A smile crossed her face as she looked up at him, a mixture of embarrassment and pride. "They all told me to ask you. Apparently you are the only one for me."

He saw a blush tinge her cheeks even as a light frown pulled at his own lips. Though she continued on to excuse her slip by saying, "Ah, I mean, you are the only one who is above my skill level," it had still unearthed a memory, one which today inflicted more pain than it might have otherwise. Unaware of his reaction, she bit her lip and looked down. "But you are so tired, I wouldn't want to exhaust you even more."

"We will spar," he promised, reaching out to clap his hand reassuringly on her shoulder. "If not today, then tomorrow. You are right... it is not my best day."

Her hand settled on his and squeezed lightly. "Today only if you are able," she agreed, "though I admit, I would truly appreciate if it could be today. I promised Livilla I'd help her in the apothecary tomorrow afternoon. I'll reserve the training salle in the second hour after general lunch." Again that hesitant smile, but it faded quickly as her hand moved to his arm once more. "And if you can't make it, no need to find me. I can work alone. I've become accustomed to it." She hesitated, then strained up on her toes and lightly pressed her lips to his stubbled cheek. "Be well, Ser."

For the half moment that lingered, Jean stood in a strange state of stunned confusion, trying to decipher meaning in the action. Then, as if her own boldness had embarrassed her, she hurried past him and down the corridor, ducking out of sight around the corner. That left him worried there was more to it than he was open to receive, his relationship with Artana a treasure to him in this dark era of Mage-Templar politics that kept Val Royeaux in constant tension.

After escaping the conversations at every corner within the Keep, Jean was in no rush. The carriage for hire at the nearby city gate was passed despite his finery, and he spent as much time watching the sky as his feet. As a memory took hold of him at a particular street corner he slowed, a hand sliding to rest on the pendant at his neck, the two rings flanking it turned by his thumb. With a shuddering breath he looked to the side, realizing he'd found his way to his intended destination, a store trusted as much for its discretion as the quality of its merchandise. A plain brown package had been prepared for him, which he accepted from the blonde clerk with barely a nod before departing, not wishing to linger.

At the heart of the city sat the Grand Cathedral. None other was like it in all of the many lands of Thedas, and nowhere else did the sound of the Chant pour forth nearly every hour of every single day. The scent of incense from the Cathedral permeated even the pavestones of the courtyard, and the gentle, soothing sounds of the large fountain featuring a weeping Andraste would usually demand a moment of awe and relaxation. Today he passed both by, and was likewise unappeased by the hypnotic rays of light off the glimmering, fragmented colored glass of the towering clerestory.

His route was automatic: to the eastern side aisle along the main transept, to one of the largest, grandest, and most beautifully decorated of all the private side chapels within the Cathedral. The Durante family chapel housed five large urns holding the ashes of many Durantes, following the most traditional form of interment in Thedas. Its walls were decorated with gilding and columns and crests, but each of the three walls featured oil paintings at least twice as tall as a human.

Jean finally did pause to look up into the oil eyes of 'Maferath' - or, that is, Henry Durante, painted in effigy of Maferath. Though his long blond hair no longer appeared in the family today, the brilliant blue of his eyes remained a constant, it seemed, as every generation at least one Durante came into the world with them. Another melancholy sigh echoed, and Jean moved to collect a prayer candle from a nearby supply. When he returned to the hassock before the marble railing, he placed the candle reverently and then brought his hand over his heart, smiling sadly at a name carved into the side of the third urn. For all the strain he had today, it was nice to simply have time alone to think.

Perchance, to mourn.

After singing the first set of prayers from the Chant he so cherished, he retrieved the plain brown package and opened it, removing from it a bundle of purest white flowers to rest before the urn. Tears welled without shame, the sad smile returning as his hand dragged back along the marble, fingertips instinctively finding and tracing the name which consumed his thoughts this day.

_Cateline Durante_. Just the name brought forth the memories: her smile, her laugh, the way her cheeks flushed when they kissed... She had been so vibrant, so _alive_, that even her memories made it seem like he had seen her but yesterday. The wound was still so fresh, for all that it had been inflicted years before. His fingers lingered on the dates next to her name. In his native tongue, he murmured, _"Too few years for such a remarkable soul."_

"Ah, such a touching sight," a voice said mockingly from some distance behind him, its lilting Orlesian accent cutting through the silence. "And here I thought you had already forgotten her face. You were quick enough to replace her in your bed, no?" He made a _tsk_ing sound. "And with the same woman who shares your brother's bed. What did the children think of that, I wonder? Ah, what would your dear, dead wife think, hmm?"

Jean's head just slightly shifted to the side. He narrowed his eyes and wiped them with his right hand, the gauche words having certainly gotten his attention. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your lovely Cateline - you do remember her name? Ah, so so, I see you do. Such a delicious woman, I'll admit that." A sigh echoed, as if from a fond memory. "Hard to believe she was so difficult to kill - those eyes, those legs, those breasts... Truly delectable." A figure stepped from a shadow a fair distance from Jean. "_Enjoyable_, one might say. I certainly did."

Jean's memory was as pure as his anger, and this nameless, insulting … _bastard_ had managed to invoke the wrath he apparently sought. The warrior stood, a hand still on the railing of his family's chapel, gripping tightly enough that his knuckles were white. His posture was proud, though - not subject to his rage, nor to this stranger's desires. "Say what you will. They are lies. None had honor more impeccable than Cateline, and I nursed her in her dying fever. I know the truth that you cannot touch."

"Do you? You were away so very many nights when you were a Chevalier, surrounded by strong men... why should she not have done the same?" The man's face was too distant to be seen clearly, but it was not hard to imagine a leer from _that_ tone of voice. He moved closer to Jean, the dim light glinting off the dagger hilts that poked over his shoulders. "I suppose you wouldn't be able to confront such thoughts. Too painful, no?" Stopping just short of the light, his face remained indeterminate, his eyes nothing more than a vague gleam. "Of course, administering the poison at just the right time in the pregnancy... it is an art, you see, to ensure it appears natural. My Master was quite insistent. A pity the child had to be sacrificed... well, one of them, anyway." Light glinted off his teeth as he grinned, apparently enjoying Jean's obvious distress. "Your cries were heartbreaking, young Jean. Quite heartrending, in very deed."

"By your words I can tell that you have no knowledge whatsoever of matters of the heart," Jean seethed, pulling his hand from the marble railing lest he find a way to crack it, or his hand - whichever came first.

The man shrugged, as if indifferent to whatever reaction his words might provoke. "Believe as you will. I am not concerned with your opinion of my words or my character. I am here merely to offer you some friendly advice." A half-step brought his lower body into the light, black cloth visible and nothing more. "Keep my angel alive. Should she die, that is the day that you and your precious Wardens protecting her will perish. It is good you performed the Joining, as I intended." He didn't elaborate on that statement, but cocked his head. "Livilla, however... Well, that is a matter for another day."

He bowed, showing a body clad entirely in that tight black cloth and black hair pulled into a queue, but still no face or features to pick him out of a crowd. "Enjoy your wife's memory, good ser. For that is all you have left." He held up a familiar small book of the Chant, a common enough sight in the hands of a noblewoman. Even from that distance, Jean could see the dusky blue ribbon still inside of it, remembered touching it before leaving his room, and balled his hands into fists to think that this _creature_ dared defile Cateline's beloved treasure with his vile touch. "_All_ you have left."

Before Jean could do more than take two steps towards him, the man stepped back into the shadow, disappearing from sight.

"Coward!" Jean spat, halting his futile rush. "You would not speak so if you were honorable enough to face me!" The setting hadn't changed simply because his mood had, of course. He was practically shouting in the middle of the Chantry, but the thought never reached his mind as he moved a hand to his chest. Panic had set in when he'd recognized Cateline's Hours in the other man's hand, and what he said about having _nothing_ left...

The rings were still there, and Jean did seem very relieved. Much as the intruder had been wrong about Cateline's character, he was mistaken in his final declaration as well. Jean still had the rings on the necklace that was never removed, he still had his memories, and he still had the children. The illumination was priceless, hand-penned, and, yes, a memorandum that had been a great source of comfort to him since her passing, but it wasn't the only thing he had of Cateline in his life.

It took until he had mentally walked through some of those memories before he was able to finally loosen his now painfully aching fists, eyes squeezing shut as he considered the storybook romance that bards sung of in love songs decades before he ever met his beloved wife. Maybe receiving her favor had doomed him to be injured in that joust, but he'd always remember her perfect face above him when he woke. He would fight to the death for his dear Cateline, but now the threat was also on Artana, and only a fool would make the mistake to assume he would not do the same for her.

"_Nothing can confuse my memory of you, dear Cateline_," he whispered in Orlesian, resting his hand once more on the urn. "_I never looked away, and I know in my heart, neither did you. I will not rest if anyone dares believe elsewise_."

.~^~.

It was afternoon before he returned to the Keep, head down, eyes on his feet as he walked. For Cateline to have been insulted so badly was crime enough, but he hadn't even been able to defend her... That weighed more on his shoulders than his full plate armor, and felt hotter on his chest, too. He pushed open the gates to the Warden's Keep with little more than a nod to the watch, then moved with muscle memory towards the door.

And the eyes in the shadows followed him.

Jean paused, the glint of a blade in the light catching his eye and drawing it to a woman training in the afternoon light. It wasn't Isabeau, but it was reminder enough, and he looked up to see where he was. With a detour, and a peek to the sky in the name of guessing the hour, he found his way to the salle she'd described that morning.

"Isabeau... I apologize. I had nearly forgotten." Though at first his attention seemed... elsewhere than the prospect of a spar, he was swiftly realizing it was perhaps the best idea he'd heard all day. "Sometimes I think I forget that I am a warrior foremost. Times like this, I want nothing more to remember it. Am I too late for our spar?"

She smiled and shook her head. "I was just adjusting my new armor." Her hands reached up and wiggled at her breastplate with its griffon one more time, and she took a few firm steps in a small circle before ending up facing him again. "It's been some time since I've had new armor. I haven't grown all that much in the last few years, after all." If she hadn't been so determined to avoid eye contact, Jean wouldn't have noticed how quickly her eyes darted around the room, moving over the racks of weapons and shields that lined the walls. "I'm a little ashamed to admit that I'm not sure which swords or shields I can choose from in this salle - I've just been using the practice swords in the open practice arenas. In Montfort, everyone kept their weapons in their quarters, but it was a much shorter walk. I didn't even know some of them were personal weapons until yesterday. Which swords are available to use during practice? Eventually I'll get one myself, but-" her lips thinned as she glared at the nearest sword rack, "-apparently the smiths in Val Royeaux think _pretty little girls_ don't need their own weapon."

"Did they say that?" Jean wondered in disbelief, shaking his head. "I think you have not met the right smiths, then. I hope none of them were apprenticed by the Durantes. We would have hopefully taught them better." _Though Bernard_... Pushing thoughts of his father well away, Jean gestured to the right side of the salle, farthest from the gate. "Those placed farther away, in better cover, are the weapons that Wardens own. The ones closer to the street are the ones that are available for general use." He moved towards the first racks he described to gather his own sword and shield, the gilding making both stick out against the steels, coppers, and even wooden construction shields along the row. "I would offer you my brother's, but they would be useless to you. I was hoping to train properly, rather than you play around with daggers. Take one of the unassigned ones."

She nodded and began working through the racks he had indicated as 'available weapons', testing each blade for weight and balance. Despite her height, she was able to easily heft even the heaviest of swords, though the frowns when she put all the blades back indicated that they did not _feel_ right. When she reached the last rack and put her hand on the hilt of a rather beautiful longsword, however, she froze. Her whole body tensed for a moment as her free hand balled into a fist, and he heard her swift intake of breath from across the salle.

Slowly she pulled the sword from the rack and inspected it meticulously. It seemed to be a fine weapon - finer, in fact, than many of those belonging to other Wardens - with a long, elegant blade offset by a tastefully beautiful yet solid hilt which seemed to fit perfectly in her hand. As she quickly swung the sword and executed a few maneuvers to test it, he realized not only did it seem to be perfectly suited for her, but that she was likely every bit as skilled as she had claimed, if not more.

It was a shame he couldn't enjoy that thought more. It was distracting that despite how well it suited her, her face was tense, and when the blade swung to a halt, she reversed her grip on the hilt so she could bring it closer to her face for further scrutiny. And the entire time, her other hand had never relaxed from the tight fist it had made upon finding the sword. Jean moved closer, his own body reacting to her tension by gaining some of his own.

"I have never seen this blade before now. Is it... a family heirloom of yours?" As good an explanation as any. If it was bequeathed to her by mother or father, it would have the potential to be a painful arrival on the weapon racks, judging by what Ives had confided in him.

"My father's sword is being held for me elsewhere, but more for the memory than for future use. He was as tall as you, though not as broad in the shoulders." Her hand finally unclenched and reached up to lightly run her fingers down the unmarred length of the sword blade. "Fresh from the anvil," she sighed, then looked at the hilt once more before quickly swinging it about and settling it into her grip. "No, I daresay the man who left this blade for me knows exactly the nature of the gift and how it would be received." She turned to him, though she still didn't quite meet his eyes as she looked at the shields, pointing to one rack in particular. "So, any of those shields are available?"

After his day thus far, Jean did not press her despite not being satisfied with her explanation. Instead, he turned to face more of the rack she was already standing near and gestured widely. "Any with a Griffon. Maybe one sized for an el-..." Quite abruptly he stopped, his mind sharply changing on the matter of what he'd intended to say, and his ears flared red with bashfulness. Though her height was diminutive, he felt it impolitic to highlight the fact that she stood shorter than an elf. "I'll fetch one for you," he said instead, using the opportunity to tromp away, unaware of the way that she smiled. When he returned she again scrutinizing the blade, and he was glad to offer distraction.

"Will this do?" It was a targe, but elven-sized. It may have been a close call to avoid the mention, but that didn't mean the thought hadn't remained with him. "A smith would be able to tailor it to you. Wardens are familiar with scavenging rare finds, yes? I think in the Keep, our smith deals with reforging more than new." He hefted his own sword and shield and felt the pull of fabric over his broad shoulders with a slight frown. "I would prefer not to tear this shirt, though... would it insult you for me to fight without one? Else, I might need a few moments to change. " He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the Keep, trying to calculate how long it would take to switch out his clothes.

"No!" came the reply, and when Jean looked back at her, she bit her lip as if a bit surprised by the outburst. "I mean, no, it would not insult me." Her eyes darted not to the Keep, but to one of the corners of the salle, and moved away just as quickly, making eye contact for the first time since he'd arrived. A smile lit her lips that seemed a trifle forced as she added, "As long as I needn't follow suit." The words hung there for a moment, and then her cheeks reddened as she seemed to realize what she'd actually _said,_ and worse, what the words implied. Quickly taking a step back, she turned her attention to her shield as she cleared her throat. "Ah, I mean... it shouldn't matter in combat, no?"

In true mutual awkwardness, her comment forced him to blurt an apology and get tangled in his sleeves as he pulled his shirt over his head. Never comfortable around a lady's blushes in the first place, his unwitting contribution to her unease began a flush of his own. "Ah, I did not ... I mean, I am sure that - ah, no matter your choice of attire you are more than capable of defending yourself. Or the opponent's attire... or ... lack thereof..." The flush spread as an acute embarrassment spread through him. To be talking about such matters as... as _lack of dress_ with a _woman_-! Jean stopped, cleared his throat, and draped his dress shirt over the nearby racks. "I think there is a more comfortable language for both of us. Can we use it instead?" he asked plaintively.

She nodded, lips pressed tightly against each other, and brought her sword and shield into a ready stance. With a few quick steps she approached him, and in those few steps she lost the tension that had lingered after finding the sword. Though her weapons were similar to his, her fighting style looked to involve more movement - a logical extension of her size. Though he'd fought smaller opponents, it was not a common occurrence to come against one quite _this_ diminutive, and his mind quickly turned to tactics and strategy, and thankfully away from earlier events of any sort. He did notice her eyes linger for a moment on the rings which never left the chain around his neck, and then her eyes focused on the _whole_ of him. He knew why her eyes were so intent and scrutinizing every muscle: with his shirt off, his chest was an open book for his intent. Armored opponents didn't have flexing muscles showing the lean to the right, or a tense pull to the sword.

It wasn't long before both fell into a dance of their own sorts, far detached from the bards of Orlais, and his only concern in the world was how to best provide a challenge in the duel at such an obvious penalty. He could tell in her eyes that her problems had melted away just as his own did - a reprieve with nothing more pressing than the clank of swords or the clack of shields, or their feet shifting on the dusty training ground with freedom and fluidity. As they began to sweat, their true test of each other began, as stamina and skill both were now upon the table for judgment. Though certain aspects of technique were found wanting, never did it interfere with the sheer beauty of their movements, a beauty few could appreciate or understand outside of those who themselves created it.

Both noticed, yet neither acknowledged the Wardens who began to gather around them to watch the training session. Jean had just started to pull on his second wind, though he could see that his breath was as heavy as hers, and the sweat gleaming on both was noticeable in the afternoon light. This was training, however, not combat - their match would sadly have to draw to an end before they drained themselves utterly. He'd truly needed it, and it had certainly helped. After another strike to the shield, when both stepped back to reset their stance after a bracing exchange and a solid moment of eye contact, Jean raised his sword to lay across his shield.

It was only as he began to bow and offer the match to her that he realized she was doing the same. They shared a good laugh at that, though it took its form in a tired chuckle. "Well, I see there is little I can teach you after all, Sister. Not even humility. You have trained well, and become well-balanced."

An edge of a blush highlighted her cheeks as she smiled at the compliment. "In this, perhaps." A distinct snigger emanating from a form that looked suspiciously like Ives made her smile fade and the blush darken, and Jean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His brother could find an innuendo in _any_ comment, and in _his_ world, Isabeau's words would have been an invitation for further lessons in... other matters. He watched as her eyes darted around the room and widened before returning to meet his own with a silent plea. He was abruptly reminded that she came from Montfort, a Warden outpost dubbed a Keep more for proximity to several Deep Roads entrances than because of any large size, and that most of the people surrounding them were, to her, strangers. He opened his mouth, but no answers sprung to his lips for the problem at hand.

Luckily, his brother provided distraction, sweeping in towards them, a hand placed on each shoulder. "Marvelous!" he said. "Absolutely marvelous, my dear. Jean, do you think-?"

"She would duel you?" Jean quipped. It was far more familiar ground to provide a distraction on Ives' lead. "No, you're a-"

"Don't say it! Don't ... Ah, _oui oui_, I suppose it cannot be denied. _A tricky bastard._ Well..."

Jean couldn't keep the grin from his face as Ives turned to their audience and held out his arms, looking among the gathered. He was a hero in his own way as he stepped forward and asked, "Well, who will?" though it was the addition of, "I think I would like to duel just now. The mood seems perfect, for some reason," that made Jean chuckle.

A motion in the corner of his eye brought him to notice that Isabeau used the distraction to slip away, and he followed soon after her so he could grab his shirt. It was none too soon, either - behind him, Ives' voice called, "Does anyone feel up to meeting the thrust of my blade?" Naturally, the Wardens - most particularly the dwarves - experienced a ripple of laughter. Just as he reached for his shirt, a second familiar voice volunteered herself to the challenge. Jean wasn't fooled, of course - Artana could make quick work of Ives any day, no matter the thrusts of whichever blade.

"Your hero, hmm?" Jean whispered to Isabeau as he stood near her, sorting out the fabric so that he could consider how to pull it on without fighting too much with his sweaty skin.

Her eyes widened as she watched him work with the shirt - without the distraction of combat, it would seem that she saw the muscles of his well-honed body in a completely different light. She quickly looked away from him, and he watched as she concentrated on how to best store her sword for the moment. She didn't particularly _look_ at anything else, she just made sure not to look at _him_. "Even a scoundrel can be a gentleman on occasion, Ser."

He was tickled enough by her bashful behavior to chuckle again, and shrugged, turning to spare her scrutiny and look towards the fight. Artana was giving Ives a fair enough chance that their spar was still ongoing, the two dancing around each other with blades glinting. "He does mean well, no matter the trouble he tends to get into. I think that he has always wished that no one had to suffer, no matter how small the... ah, what is the word?"

"Inconvenience?" she offered. Her eyes had finally settled on watching the couple in the center of the ring of people, brow creasing in concentration. "I-I wanted to thank you, Ser. It has been many years since I have fought such an able opponent. Although, I wonder if I could ask your opinion on whether it would be possible for me to train with two blades? The teacher for such technique at Montfort said I was too short." Her lips thinned, hinting that _more_ had been said, but when she looked up at him, the irritation had faded. "Sometimes I wish I were taller."

"I think height is given too much emphasis," he returned mirthfully, a little twinkle in his blue eyes that just couldn't carry the same mischief as Ives. "Look. Artana dual wields, and she is..." For a brief moment he paused, his face twisting in consideration of the best choice of words. "... Ah, not much taller than you. I recall a man, too... one that has since been Called... A dwarf - with Kal'Sharok near, we seem to always have at least one at a time. He was here when we Joined... and did not seem to even notice that his swords were nearly his own height." The memory was fond enough of the old dwarf - set into the senility associated with those near their Calling - that his smile became more pensive as he inwardly offered a moment of memorial.

"Swords, and not daggers?" She sighed. "I suppose I should concentrate on what I have before I dream of more." Her eyes followed along the motions of the duelists, and suddenly she smiled. "I've seen less intimacy inside a bedroom. What is that poem? _'And twixt their eyes move the language of the stars'... _Your brother is a scoundrel even in combat, I see."

"Poem? I think that we will not quite be hearing poems in the air soon ..." He trailed off as the first catcalls and lewd suggestions hit the air and sighed. "To them, it is not quite as you quoted, though I am ... impressed to hear you use the words General Renaud de Fleur. I respect him greatly, and I studied the battle he wrote those words of. The champions of either side stole the entire battlefield. It ... must have been glorious, no?"

She met his eyes. "Oh, you've read de Fleur? Fath- I mean, I haven't met another who has in a very long time. I was raised by Wardens, for the most part, and they tend not to be... ah, well-read." Her smile warmed her gaze as she ignored the strangled _oof_ that suddenly came from the fierce battle taking place. "Champions of renown, but lovers of legend, is how I always thought of those champions when I was younger. Well, not _too_ young, of course. When I was old enough to... Oh, dear." A _whump_ echoed in the room, but the suggestions shouted by the Wardens suddenly became _far_ more explicit. A blush lit her cheeks again as she broke eye contact with Jean and looked to the door that led into the salle.

Her face paled as she suddenly moved towards the door, brandishing her blade and pulling a smaller knife out of a concealed sheath in the small of her back. Before she hit the door, she was running at full speed, quickly disappearing from sight down the corridor. Jean was still staring, the motion so odd and swift that he needed a moment to process it all. Weapons had been drawn - that was reason enough to rush after her.

By the time he reached her, she was holding a paper in her hands, still mostly crouched from reaching to pick it up. The words were simple and large enough that he could read them over her shoulder as he neared.

_Accept the sword as my present to you, my angel,_ the curling handwriting said within. _Stay safe._

She proceeded to exercise her vocabulary to its limits right there in the middle of the hallway, shocking Jean just enough that his eyes widened. He didn't blame her for the reaction, but he didn't realize she knew _that_ word... Still, he was frowning, and none too pleased to see the letter himself. "That man again, yes? Or perhaps I should say boy, for if he were a man, he would face me for the insults he drew against my family today... Such a somber day, and certainly one deserving to be without his … ways." The man may have been worth far worse than that, but Jean refused to lower himself to the same level. Instead he chose to comfort her, putting his hand on her shoulder. "If I knew a way to face an assassin without another assassin, I would have moved against him already. I feel we have been forced to the defensive."

"He's good at that," she said bitterly, then paused. "Today? You saw him today?" Her hand reached to wrap around his arm. "I'm sorry. I... I know what he can be like, and I can only imagine-" Voice trailing away, she looked at the paper in her other hand, then crumpled it and stuffed it into the pouch at her waist. "I'm so sorry for _all_ of this." She wiped at her face and looked down the hall. "I thought I would be safe here. Or at least free of these... these _notes_, and the _presents_, and the-" Her mouth abruptly twisted, and she sank to the floor, hand dragging down his arm until it tightened around his hand.

"I just wish it would all... go away," she said wistfully. "Maker, I'm so _tired_ of it all." Tears flowed freely on her cheeks as she looked up at him. "He keeps taking away more than he could ever give. He even stole becoming a Warden from me. The final choice for it, I mean. I thought when we left Montfort that we would be leaving behind our problems, but he just-" She stopped to take a deep breath, then bowed her head. "I wish I could understand what happened to him."

Jean crouched to join her nearer the floor, his hand remaining with hers. After a moment he squeezed it more tightly, doing his best to catch her eyes with his own. "Isabeau, you were a Warden before you drank of the Joining Goblet, and you were postponed only because Artana did not want to shorten your life when it was not yet necessary. If we had Joined you when you were approved, it would have been weeks before he could poison you." Knowing his own pain today, and how he'd managed to push himself past it, he brought his other hand to theirs that were already joined and held hers more tightly between both. "All he can do is lie. He cannot make the lies truth. He cannot bother us more than we allow him to. You decided to be a Warden the first day you arrived. The Joining is a ceremony that is not worth mourning. Happiness is the only method to defeat a man such as that... the one thing he cannot have himself."

"He doesn't always lie," she whispered. "And his truth always hurts worse than any lie." She fell into him a little bit, her head resting on his chest as she heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry you were targeted. A man such as you does not deserve the pain of his lies and twisting of the truth. He has such a way of making things... personal, for lack of a better word. I don't know why he chose to hurt you, but if I could keep his attention solely upon me, I would."

"And if I could keep him away from someone so undeserving as you, you can be certain that _I _would. I do not know that shifting his focus is so easily done, and I do not think it is the way to fix this. We will not forget what has been done, and in time we will do what we can to learn from it. For now I can only offer you help to stand, yes?" He did so first, then held his hands down to her.

She allowed him to help her to her feet. "_Merci, Ser._" She smiled up at him wanly. "You are too kind, though. I sometimes feel as if all you hear from me are complaints." For a moment she closed her eyes, and Jean watched as she seemed to sink behind them. He knew exhaustion when he saw it, and she must have been tired in both body and soul. "Perhaps someday we may talk of something more enlightening. Renaud de Fleur, maybe?" Her gaze moved up to meet his. "But in the meantime I think a bath would be a good distraction."

It wasn't until she suddenly turned red and blurted, "Separately, of course! I, ah-" that Jean even realized that her words might possibly have hinted at something more intimate. Judging from the manner in which she took a half-step back with a horrified look on her face, however, that meaning was clearly not her intent. Her cheeks darkened to crimson with a telltale blush as she pivoted and bolted away from him.

At first he could only blink, but then he threw back his head and filled the corridor with the booming sort of laugh that _ought_ to come from him. It had been missing for far too long, for all that it had only been just half a day.

"Renaud de Fleur," he called after her retreating form. "And separate baths."


	5. Secrets Overheard

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Five: Secrets Overheard  
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Ives Durante had learned quite some many years ago that he was a very persuasive man. Lying had nothing to do with how persuasive he was, nor was it that he was pushy or manipulative. If anything it was how harmless and trustworthy he appeared that gleaned him the most information. That aloof touch, the hint of a man who didn't care about anything in the world - a dumb, good-hearted fool.

Honestly, he was none of those things, one way or the other. In his early years as a bard it gave him quite a bit of trouble to be so poor at lying and have such an identity crisis. The identity came quickly when forced, but it was harder to learn something against his morals. With age he had established how to twist truths, but he still never really blatantly lied.

Well... Almost never. There were things in life that wouldn't settle for simply not being mentioned. Someone would try to find out and someone would, inevitably, find _something_, and thus you'd have to lie if that something needed to continue in secret. He had more of these things in his life than he would like to admit, and it seemed not a single acquaintance or lover escaped such a treatment, which in turn made him doting and apologetic for guilt they had no inkling existed.

In short, no one saw Ives Durante as a threat, and hardly any could put his face to a crime other than general debauchery and public inebriation followed by indecent exposure. Perhaps that was why he found larceny to be an almost entirely risk-free endeavor. Knowing the thieves in Orlais was a fantastic way to know the nobles in Orlais, after all, even if his younger self from ten years ago would never have dreamed that his dalliance with the Thieves' Guild would elevate him so.

Yes, these days, he was the Guildmaster, the fantastical Master Thief, and it was purely because of how good he was at _not getting caught_. Artana, on the other hand ... well, her slightly lacking execution of the aforementioned was part of how their love had blossomed. After all, it was the Guildmaster's duty to see who is executing heists outside of the guild. And so one of his lies had unravelled one night when he caught Artana red-handed - mired in a lie herself - in her heavy, hooded cloak and long scarf, touting herself as 'The Ghoul' in the streets because of her nearly glowing, tainted yellow eyes.

He _had_ to tell her, and she had to admit it was silly of herself to not have told him. They began to work together, and on nights such as this, he was the most ideal Fence in all of Val Royeaux. His persuasion floated through the air gently, kissing the notes beneath the echoes of the Chant sung in city center; a lullaby meant to ensure the Wardens in the Keep behind them had their noses clean - or at the least, in the plates onto which they'd collapsed after their fifth flagon of mead. He sat back in the shadows and waited for the jingle of coin purses, his eyes closed in dedication to the world of sound - around him, above him, and from the violin tucked under his chin.

As he waited a sense of the winds changing settled in around him, so he changed his song to one more fitting. It was another several minutes from that change that the long awaited jingling of coins was heard, causing a smile to tuck at the corners of his lips. He felt her next to him, wordless, but with a presence no Warden could miss.

"Sounds like you found what you were looking for, _amour_," Ives commented without losing that smile, opening his eyes, or stopping his song. "No troubles, I trust?"

"If there were, it stands to reason I wouldn't have been successful," Artana pointed out in a tone that made Ives chuckle.

He finally lowered the violin after closing out his song, the bow and body both reverently set aside as he opened his eyes and let them take in the night. Her eyes really were like a cat's against the moon - or, well, a Darkspawn's, to be quite literal. "As always, you are right and I am more the fool. A shame it's so true... what would I do without you? It would be a return to the dark."

Artana shook her head, then hefted the four bags of coins. "Here. If you intend to return before dark is over, you will need to go. At least half of this gold needs to go to the alienages. The sickness that has bothered them this last week still has yet to relinquish its hold on that sector."

"Yes, the west end - I couldn't possibly forget. Duty calls, no? Here, I can trust you to put away my violin, I hope?" He traded, bags for instrument, and began to tie them to his belt one by one. "These clandestine little meetings are always so rousing. I'm tempted to steal a kiss, but your lips are buried under that scarf."

"Deliveries first," she said simply and flatly, and Ives recognized the tone of experience.

"There can't be that many doctors willing to enter the Alienage," a voice said from the shadow of a nearby building. A cloaked figure stepped into the moonlight, regarding both of them with a flinty gaze. "How much of that money is wasted as a bribe to get him to make house calls?" Livilla's narrowed eye landed on Artana. "Ives is a bard with a history of less-than-ideal perfection, but you, Commander? Why risk the Wardens and their reputation so?"

Ives held a sigh in his chest rather than let it out. He had hoped that his shadow wouldn't have showed herself until _after_ Artana had headed back into the Keep. It would have been even more convenient had she decided not to do it at all, but this... He looked to Artana, the fire already behind her eyes, and readied himself for a battle with something sharper than swords.

"When there are those who starve living in the same city as those who prepare more than they can ever eat and will not share, there is an imbalance that I cannot ignore. Especially when the majority of those are Elvhen, living wrapped around that tree, one cliff shear to protect them from sea. They know true risk every day of their lives, and through their eyes I know that there is none for the Wardens. I won't be caught."

"You _have_ been caught," Livilla pointed out, tapping a finger on her chest. "And not just once. Noble intent does little if you anger the wrong people enough. The Elvhen know _that_ lesson better than most as well." She shook her head. "It is unnecessary for you to take the risks. Let the lout do it. He's human and nobly born, if not noble, and might even be lauded for the actions in the salons of the upper crust. An elf with the markings of savages on her face that is also the Commander of an Order with a declining status... The risks loom large, Commander, and the benefits are limited. It would be more effective to escort me to the Alienage than put money into the pockets of doctors who charge extra for the 'danger' of going into such places." She took a few steps forward. "The humans don't understand the Elvhen, and you give them an excuse to hate us even more."

"You followed us," Artana accused, taking a half-step forward before she was halted by Ives, who had slipped an arm around her waist to hold her close and out of confrontational proximity.

"Tut, _amour_, we don't want to draw attention to ourselves - it _is_ an odd hour to be discussing matters in the courtyard, after all, and her points do have some merit. I'm sure you would admit it yourself come this time tomorrow, hm? Let us favor rationality here, be done with the risk of squabble, and send me on the way with these bags." Squeezing her hip for good measure, he glanced sideways to Livilla, calculation in his eyes for that briefest of moments.

"My face can't be seen," Artana pressed in her defense, and Ives held in another sigh. "My help is needed. There are steps in place. I wouldn't wear all of this if I didn't find it important to continue my work. The money will buy them food, health, and perhaps the will to leave."

"And is ultimately selfish on your part." Livilla crossed her arms over her chest. "You risk others besides yourself to bolster your own sense of worth. Even if there are those who benefit, putting the Wardens' reputation on the line and risking further damage to the already low opinion of the Elvhen in Val Royeaux is not worth it!" She looked down and took a deep breath. "Commander. I understand the desire to help. But let those who are better suited to it take on the task." Her eye moved up to look at them. "Would you put me in an archer's mount?"

Ives knew that further incident had only been avoided thanks to Artana's practiced self-control. "I'm sure that if you _were_ put in an archer's mount, you'd be spectacular in no time at all, _cherie_. There is something to be said for the satisfaction of having your hand in the change that I like to support in this. I am taking the gold from here, and I will be the one caught with it. Not that anyone will be caught with it," he added, feeling the tension in Artana mount.

"I cannot heal them myself, so I won't stop doing at least what I am able."

"Then find those who can do what must be done and step away from the danger." Livilla shook her head. "I'm not saying that aid should not be given, but you are not the one to give it, Commander. Not here, not in this city. In any endeavor, the benefits should outweigh the risks and ego should be set aside. If I can tail you, be sure there are others who can do the same - if they have not already done so. Val Royeaux is full of shadows."

"But I know most of the shadows in Val Royeaux," Ives pointed out, adding emphasis to his words with a gesture. "In fact, I even noticed you. Surely you noticed when I suddenly began playing a sweet melody other than a lullaby? I just think it fair to say that I do as I can to be sure that my little wood nymph has her run of the town. More than even _you_ may know."

Livilla gave Ives a look of almost pity. "And the other shadow? You don't know the shadows as I do, lout. And if you say you know most of the shadows in Val Royeaux, then I pray to Dirthamen you never lose that ignorance." She shrugged. "But it does not discount the validity of what I said, Commander. You take chances that could harm us - the Wardens and the Elvhen - yet you only think of the marginal good." Her gaze moved to Ives. "Take me with you. I can do more for the sick ones than your gold can, at least."

Ives looked immediately to Artana, knowing that Livilla had said nothing to lessen the anger between them. "_Amour_," he began, his voice lowering to hardly a whisper. "Perhaps it is best to leave tonight alone and to reassess this all in the morning? Livilla is a healer, and the Durantes are notorious for paying our elven servants an 'excessive wage.' This would be seen as little more than me being ... me, and with her in tow, I wouldn't even need to be a sneak about it."

"You were cut off from your fortune. The gold would be obvious."

Ives chuckled and shook his head. "I don't intend to wave it about." He could tell Artana was still seething, so he shifted his hands to settle them both on her shoulders, his eyes catching hers directly. "It will be fine. We'll discuss it more later. For now, you've done a marvelous job, and you need your rest. For me?"

Artana puffed some air through her nose, but looked beyond him to the Keep. "Don't forget the orphanage. They had their taxes raised and can't make the payment without forgoing the children's food."

"Perish the thought, _amour_! Now... please?" Brandishing one of his famous pouts beyond her ability to ignore, he persisted until the amber-eyed woman stalked around both of them, neither acknowledging nor looking at Livilla as she passed.

Ives shook his head, but took Artana's silent admonition for what it was worth and set his hands on his hips. "Ah, lala. Such a busy night already!"

Livilla approached him, glancing at Artana's retreating form. "Why do you let her persist? Or are you truly as innocent of the dangers as you appear to be? If I can follow you so easily, surely others with more malicious intent can do so as well." She glanced back the way she had come, looking at the roof of a nearby building. "It is not unheard of, after all."

"Oh, perhaps I'm a fool. I suppose that I believe such good intention won't draw bad energy. Well, I also suppose that I believe there is little I've ever come up against in this city that I don't wholly believe Artana can defeat. I doubt there are many things that could cause her ill with or without a few thrilling monetary liberations in the night, no?" He smiled, moving back to his violin. Since they wouldn't be sneaking to the Alienage now, he'd need to have his expected effects. "If be a thief is what she wants to do, I think there's more harm in keeping her from doing it."

"For her, perhaps," Livilla murmured, then shook her head and refrained from further comment. "She has always been a Warden once she left her Clan, I take it? It seems as if she has rarely in a situation where she did not have some sort of protection from the effects of public opinion in a human's world." Her arms came up to wrap around her torso, and she looked ahead as they began walking down the cobbled road. "I know she has had a life of pain, but I worry she does not truly appreciate the dangers she courts for those unaware of what she does." Turning her head slightly towards Ives, she said, "You were a Court Bard. What would the reaction be if an Elvhen Grey Warden Commander were caught stealing, no matter the cause? Truthfully, now."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be pretty. Then again, you've proven your concept of beauty is quite odd and skewed, so perhaps I should say that it may be ... _complicated_." He smirked, glancing to her from the corner of his eye, noting the thinned lips and clenched hands. Amused but not particularly moved by the expression, he reached down to shift and adjust his coat so it better sat over the coin purses. "I'm sure I could smooth things over, though. It wouldn't be to Val Royeaux's advantage to oust the Wardens. With a Holy War in the air, it stands to reason that we're the only defense they'd willingly throw away to fight the things they wouldn't want to waste Chevaliers on, no?"

"No, but you are a noble and you obviously have a more... ah, egalitarian view of elves than most. What would happen to the elves that every day go to the houses of their rich masters? They would be judged. Their masters would look at them and think, _Even the rich elf stole, why should I trust you?_ It would be subtle, but it would have an effect, and one that would spread like ink in water."

"Not if it isn't to the benefit of Orlais," he said simply, cryptically, and somewhat dismissively before turning his eyes on the road before them. "What a beautiful night, isn't it? I think I can easily dismiss this as a sudden urge to perform. Not a cloud in the sky. Stars as far as you can see, like a thousand dancing fireflies over a glass-calm lake." He drew in a deep breath and sighed it back out. "And yet the brightest light of them all walks beside me, unaware of her brilliance."

Her steps faltered, as if she had stopped in place before deciding to continue on. "I- I wish you would not persist in that odd misconception of yours, lout. Or are you trying to make me return to the Keep and leave you alone to go about your work?" Her stride picked up pace a little from where she lagged behind him. "It won't work."

"I have never uttered a single syllable to you that I did not believe to the depths of my heart, you know. Actually, and it's very possible you'll hit me for this, I think it's adorable and perfectly ironic that you lecture me about ignorance when here you are, so insistent to cling to it." Though he knew it would only instigate, there was a wide grin on his face. It was only partially due to his pride in distracting her from the uncomfortable subjects that he'd so dearly wished to never have come up at all. "Incidentally, I do need to stop along the way. It won't do for the poor to have gold coins, so I'll need to ... visit an acquaintance, and change these to silver and copper."

She stopped her hand before it connected with his arm, a frown on her face as she pondered his words. Finally she whispered, "You don't know me at all, lout, if you think your words inflict no pain."

"Ah, that's not fair in the least," Ives protested, his brows drawing together and upwards as a small frown afflicted his lips. "You cannot say such as that without causing some pain in return. I mean the best, truly, and speak only the truth. Yet... It seems I can say that until my face has gone quite blue... ah, lala." He paused, a heartfelt sigh drawn slowly from his lungs. "There is beauty in this world to be found other than that which is expected, you know."

Her hood turned to him, the light from the torches which lit the alley glinting off her single dark eye even in the depths of her cloak. "And you have already found yours, have you not? I simply ask that you-" Her mouth worked silently for a moment, but words failed her. Finally she shook her head and looked ahead, her face hidden from him once more. "Martin calls me his dear dark beauty. Perhaps it is simply no more than that... association which makes me react as I do."

The frown lingered on the bard's face, but without being able to see her expression or question her too closely, he felt limited in his ability to ascertain her emotional state. _Yet again, Martin has an influence... and yet again, that influence is a torture most subtle upon his target_

Before he managed a reply, just in the moment he drew the breath to speak, she pulled her cloak tighter around herself and spoke in a far more certain voice. "At least Isabeau is safe in the Keep." Her glance behind them told Ives that more than the bard was on her mind - and no surprise, with her talk of shadows earlier and Martin's unfortunate entry into the conversation. Even in the dim moonlight and despite her scars, the line of worry on her forehead was clear.

"That she most certainly is." Following her unspoken hint to move away from the earlier topic, he forced himself to wear a charming smile. "Are you sure you don't want to stop in with me for the exchange, though? My fence is the most handsome fellow... gorgeous golden hair, eyes like endless pools..." He saw her hands tighten around her arms, and trailed away. "I ... am clearly being trite in your opinion." After awkwardly clearing his throat, he pointed to the side. "I'll just head this way, then. Back ever so soon."

Leaving Livilla behind, Ives found his way through a warren of twists and turns to the man who controlled most of the ready cash in certain areas of Val Royeaux, and was generally willing to trade it for items or different kinds of money. The blond-haired man took what Ives offered him, nodded, and disappeared into the back to change it into something less noticeable than gold.

As Ives poked around the various items carefully displayed - usually after the blood had been cleaned off - a hand reached over his shoulder and picked up a rather modest dagger. "Such an interesting place to find a son of nobility, Ives Durante."

Though the voice was grating on him as painfully familiar, Ives had a response for such a question already crafted. Even as he turned he chuckled, the words rolling from his tongue, a very easy half-truth. "Fighting Darkspawn is dangerous work. Not all the..." For a brief moment he paused, his eyelids fluttering a couple of times as his eyes picked out a familiar profile complete with scar and eye of midnight blue to tell who had approached him. "... Best items are found in the high market. And if you think it interesting for me, then I can scarcely wait to hear _your_ reasoning. I believe I've seen you ... once, in the North side of town. Why so close to the coast, my recurring stranger?"

"There is much to see and hear in such places. I have found it useful to remain aware of many, many things. My angel survives, however, so the day ended well." The knife was set back down and the man shifted, taking himself out of the bard's line of sight entirely. "Cannot two men find their paths crossing by coincidence more than once?"

Ives took what he could from what little he'd been given. The man chose to pick up a dagger to catch his attention, which might have meant it was his weapon of choice. A good a guess as any considering the proximity of a sword and a bow, but it also could have been simply that the dagger was the smallest and easiest to handle. He was a braggart; by touting the knowledge of his name, this man had clearly wanted to alert Ives to how well-informed he was. Perhaps even to threaten him, but Ives couldn't think of any particular _gain_ for him in that situation. From what he'd seen so far, this man really only put effort into endeavors that benefitted him. The oddity was the matter of what his motives were, and why they were so hard to pinpoint in a man who clearly loved to make the world aware of his expertise.

"Ah, lala, no, I think you strike me more a man of _fate_ than coincidence, _ami_. Can I call you that? We've not been properly introduced, yet I remain the only one without a name to such a handsome face." Given the man's subtle hints, however, Ives did not turn around to seek out a better view of that 'handsome face'. "Or perhaps you're not a man of fate nor of coincidence, but one after my own heart," he guessed animatedly, snapping his fingers to accentuate the epiphany. A moment later, he drooped his eyelid over one baby blue, a charming grin upon his lips. "You just can't go a week without seeing me, no, my little suitor?"

"Ah, _so so_, has it already been this long?" A hand fell on Ives' shoulder, digging into it in such a way as to make the entire arm tingle. The other man's voice dropped into an almost intimate tone as he murmured, "Tell me, was it you or my dear dark beauty Livilla who decided to put all those candles in my angel's room? It makes certain matters quite difficult. A disappointment, to be sure, though I have other means to accomplish what is necessary." The hand moved slowly along Ives' collar, fingertips eventually settling lightly over the pulse in his neck. "I trust you continue to watch over her where I cannot? As will the ever-so-innocent Jean?"

Ives chuckled, shaking his head so as to help unseat the man's grip. His pulse wasn't under the best control at the moment, and it was hard for anyone to keep their heart calm after such a strange sensation in their arm from an admittedly threatening man. "I'm sure I haven't any idea what you're talking about, _ami_, but it's true that she seems a touch afraid of the dark. Ah, the life of a Warden, wherein even sleep becomes your enemy. What were we talking about prior to that? I don't suppose it was your lovely eyes, was it?"

"The Fade is a most dangerous place, it is true. Not _quite_ as dangerous as me, perhaps, but dangerous." Approaching footsteps sounded in the back room, and lips were placed next to Ives' ear. "Protect her, Durante. There is nothing more precious in all of Thedas." The lips and hand moved away with a rustle of cloth, and when Ives finally whirled to face the man, he found naught but emptiness behind him.

"Your change, messere. Seen something else what interests you?"

"You... could say that, DuMere, you ... could say that." Ives turned back to face him and nodded, offering the most steady smile he could as he took the coin purses. After discussing what had been taken for a fee, Ives moved from the store, the spring consciously brought back into his step. The night was still young for him, and the Alienage needed him to get back on schedule.

.~^~.

Ives was still snoring a few hours after the sun had risen. An explosion in the courtyard woke him abruptly, a charming snort and a resounding thud following the jump that landed him half-off his bed. His hair was in the most impressive of mops, a trail of drool still gleamed on his chin, and despite looking around left and right he still had positively no idea what the noise had been.

It was lunchtime before he was able to put himself in order and find out anything useful. Apparently the Commander was in a mood as black as pitch, and had been all night. No one slept well when someone so steeped with the taint was in emotional duress, not with her corruption resonating with those who shared lesser severities of her conditions. Headaches were a common ailment, and enough weariness in the mages that everyone knew better than to get too near them whilst they practiced their combat spells, lest a fireball head their way. Though Artana's mood and its respective side effects were a rare occurrence, it had happened enough that the Wardens exchanged glances, hapless shrugs, and elfroot balms to ease the ache until the Commander's mood improved.

Rumor had it, though, that there was a masterful hand of one recently made Warden helping with elfroot production down in the apothecary - and _that_ just happened to bear investigation. Ives finished the last mouthful of his food and brushed away the crumbs from his shirt before making his way to a particular little-used, little-known tunnel in the basement. After ducking as best as he could through spider homes and other such dangers, he cozied up against the back side of the apothecary wall, near a spot where several bricks were missing and lazily covered from the other side with a tapestry. Though he was fairly certain he was covered in cobwebs at this point, the ultimate desired results had been achieved as women's voices came to his ears.

"... And this is the first time it's been this bad since my Joining. Do you feel anything?" _Ah, Isabeau. That adorable little peasant accent is quite gone when you think you're alone with Livilla. In fact, you seem to be quite the noble. Interesting._

As for the topic of conversation, Ives supposed that she meant the Taint, given the rumors of the day in the Keep. Livilla responded, short and curt: "No."

"The other Wardens think it has something to do with Warden-Commander Artana being upset about something." There was a pause. He noticed that the tapping of the knife on the table had stopped briefly, and when Isabeau spoke again, she sounded suspicious. "What happened last night?"

"Nothing important. I followed them, spoke a bit with them, and then went my separate way." The knife was a tad louder, more irritated. "I told you that when I got back."

"Somehow I think you left some things out."

A sniff echoed in the room on the other side of the tapestry. "I didn't leave out anything you need to know."

"Very well," Isabeau replied, though she certainly didn't sound convinced. The sound of chopping continued unabated for a moment before she continued speaking. "I wonder why it's so different for you. Is it something _they_ did to you, or something to do with that amulet? I mean, when you aren't wearing it, you get as cold as the Commander, but right now, you're fine." A pause. "Hot, even. Did you-" Now the tone was accusatory. "You did something last night, didn't you? Extended yourself magically, I mean."

"Shouldn't you be heading up to sparring practice with that Orlesian brick wall about now?"

"He is _not_ a-"

Ives had to bite his lip quite hard to keep himself from snickering, but the arrival of a new voice was just too brilliantly timed to ignore.

"Ah, sorry. I did not expect that anyone would be in here," he heard his brother say. "I just wanted some elfroot... to chew, for my headache," Ives perfectly mimicked the gesture with his hand, a rounding swoop to insinuate clarification. He didn't have to see it to know it was there. "I am sure if more of our brothers and sisters knew this would help, even our supply would be gone by now. I ... think not much will be done today, yes? Does sleeping to catch up on missed sleep count as accomplishment? There must be something in the air." Again, Ives was amused nearly to the point of ruining his cover. If Jean tried any harder to avoid mentioning Artana, _she_ was going to walk in as well.

"Oh, for-" Livilla sounded perfectly exasperated, and suddenly Jean gasped. "There. You're better. Now go teach Isabeau how to use two longswords. She hasn't been able to talk about anything else ever since that spar of yours. And you should repeat _that_, too. She's too tense."

"I... ah... I, ... yes," Jean was struggling, as if he was still trying to get his wits about him. "Her enthusiasm to learn is a credit to the Wardens. I will see if Ives is up to it, then. He was not feeling well this morning, either. I imagine he might still be asleep now."

Ives smirked. It was almost sweet the way Jean was covering for him. He knew full well that if Ives got to sleep at all it was generally from the hours just shy of dawn to the ones just before lunch. That hadn't changed for years.

"Might as well deal with him, too, then," Livilla was saying, and Ives silently startled himself. Did she know where he was? Would he glow if she healed him? "I don't suppose you have something that's touched him recently, say in the past year? A weapon, clothing, or something else? That would be easier and shorter than me going to him directly."

"We share clothes sometimes," Jean offered, "He's probably worn these, and the shirt, if that helps. I apologize, I am a little ... per-," Ives supposed he was speaking about his pants, as he thought about it, and now struggling to find the word _perplexed_. His tongue darted across his lips as the smirk shifted to a grin. The topic of his brother's 'issues with the Trade tongue' was rather amusing to him in private. "... Lost."

"Good. Off with the pants, then."

Ives' eyes widened and he raised a hand to cover his mouth, the snicker truly having _nearly_ snuck out. He shuddered with silent laughter, and missed most of his brother's response save that it ended with, "-could simply not!"

"Look, whether or not you want Ives to pay for last night's debauchery is of little matter to me," Livilla said, sounding a trifle impatient. "I want Isabeau happy. To get Isabeau happy, she needs to start two-bladed training. For that, Creators help me, I need both you and your brother. And for that, I need your pants. I can't use the pants the way I need to with you touching them in any way, so it has to be off with the pants. By Dirthamen, are _all_ men so dense? Or is it just you Durantes? Besides, unless you want everyone in the Keep incapacitated for the next week, you do _not_ want me anywhere near your lover right now."

Ives was fairly certain he was going to die by suffocation from holding back his laughter. He could see his brother's face now, red and flustered at the barest mention of the word _lover_. "Ah, why ... would you assume we were lovers when... everyone knows Ives and Artana..." Yes, he was definitely dying - about as much as Jean was floundering, as terrible a liar as he ever was.

"Oh, please. Your little love trio was the fodder for all kinds of gossip sessions for the girls in the sewing room. They always wondered if-" Her voice paused. "Well, I won't ask that, then. I'm not sure you could take it right now. Do you need some water? Your face is awfully red."

"_Livilla!"_ There were some steps. "Jean, I'm so sorry. It's not a secret, but no one truly minds. There's no need to worry about it so."

"Oh, stop coddling him. He's a grown man. Pants. Off. Now."

It sounded like Jean had backed into a chair. There was a shuffling of feet and a creak - probably from a door hinge. "If it is ... absolutely necessary... I will - just ... behind this cabinet," Ives could just barely make out, though it was certainly muffled. After a little more rustling, silence followed for a moment. The suspense was brutal.

"Excellent, Isabeau, bring me his pants."

"Why can't _you_ get them?"

"You're closer. Stop wasting time."

There was a bit of shuffling of feet, and then an embarrassed cough. "Um, Jean? Can you give me your pants?"

If that hadn't been enough, the way that Jean murmured, "_Oui..._" was just perfect. Ives was biting his lip white at this point, and almost feared he would give himself away as a laugh finally escaped in the largest degree he'd allow it - a puff of air from his nose. It sounded like Isabeau wasn't doing terribly better at the same task, thankfully. Her near laughter definitely helped to conceal his.

"Here."

"Finally," Livilla said in exasperation. "Actually, get his shirt too, while you're at it. Just in case I need it."

"Madame!" Ives heard Jean exclaim, and yet again he nearly lost it. Isabeau said something to protest, too, but the words were lost in his effort to maintain the silence necessary for spying. Such a shame, too, because if this were any more beautiful, it would have to be sung in taverns.

"Do you want to learn how to fight with two longswords or not, Isabeau? And do you want your brother to get out of bed? On a good day, I'm sure he lazes about, but after a night like last night, I'm sure he- Oh, just give her your shirt."

"What do you mean a night like-? Isabeau... why would you look at me like that?" Jean muttered. "Why must his health involve me in my small clothes?"

"Please?" Isabeau said in a soft voice, and Ives had to bite his hand to not laugh at the little catch she put into her voice. "I'll be your best friend. I _really_ want to start training today. Pretty please?"

There was a groan, and the cabinet door squeaked again. Ives could envision it - that solid wall of muscle must have looked about as intimidating as a mouse as he tried to cover his shame in his smalls.

"Oh, thank you!" Isabeau said after the most adorable of squeals, and Ives knew Jean must have acquiesced.

"Ah, much better. Now it almost feels like he's only a few feet away from me." Suddenly a tingling rushed over Ives, causing the hairs on his arms to rise - just as when she'd healed him before in her quarters. It was a frightening pairing, such a feeling and such words. He had his suspicions about their use. She was an impressive woman, it probably wasn't _impossible_ for her to know he was there... "There. Your brother is _all_ better now. Physically, anyway. I can't cure lout." There was a rustle of clothing followed by the sound of chopping resuming. "Now get dressed and get out. Isabeau's has waited long enough."

"Thank you, Ser," Isabeau said brightly with another rustle of cloth. "Here are your clothes back."

"Thank you," Jean said with great relief in his voice, "I will dress quickly and leave while my dignity and your honor are still somewhat intact. We will wake the unwakable and have you training with both of your swords soon enough."

It sounded like Ives' time was up. It took him roughly the same amount of time to stand without making a sound as it did for Jean to dress himself and head out of the Apothecary. Ives wasn't concerned about beating him up to the room - he needed to wash these cobwebs off anyways, so he would just go along to the baths and be 'found' there, instead. Just as he was beginning to shuffle out of the crevice he'd tucked himself into, though, one last gem filtered through the tapestry:

"I give those shirt and pants maybe two hours before they fall apart. ... A pity I won't be there to see it."

Ives stifled a snort as Livilla began to hum and, assumably, went back to her work.

That night the mead hall was livelier than it had been in a long time. Though only Ives had been partial witness to the prophecy itself, true to Livilla's prediction Jean's shirt and pants had literally fallen apart at the seams, falling to the floor in a flutter of loose cloth during a brisk exchange with his eager student. Ives could not decide which warrior was more mortified by the development, though Isabeau quit the field first as she fled with cheeks ablaze. This suited Ives perfectly as it left Jean to his twin's dubious tender mercies.

In the hall, Ives was cycling between giving the catcallers and chiders a lively background tune and causing Jean's hell himself. Though Jean had no hope of living down his horror tonight, he _was_ taking the hits admirably - and even laughing far more than one might have expected, particularly considering that his own twin brother was the one digging the sharpest jabs. He simply would not allow Jean to play the incident down. Ives seized every opportunity to refresh the Wardens' memory about the vanishing clothes, or to educate those who unfortunately missed the show.

At one point, after a few very pointed jabs, Jean received a heavy thump on his shoulder as Ives used it as a vault to hop down from the bench and hurry towards the newcomer. No doubt it incited terror to see _who_ his brother had targeted, because the groan he failed to stifle was audible over the din.

"Isabeau, _chérie_, recovered from seeing entirely too much of dear Jean yet, have you?" Ives grinned and looked between the two - Jean glancing up from the mug he was trying to hide behind, and Isabeau offering a sympathetic glance.

"I'm sure I do not know what you are talking about, Ives," she stated calmly. "I certainly saw nothing which would bring shame to any man."

Ives was heartbroken that she was ruining his nefarious plans. This was a prime opportunity for merciless teasing, after all. "Oh, come now, sister! Ah, lala, it's not every day that clothes simply vanish from a man's back during weapons practice, particularly when the mages are not throwing their fire about." A hand was raised dramatically to his forehead to counter Jean's exasperated sigh, and Ives' other arm swept about Isabeau's shoulders to underscore his excessive drama. "_Oh!_ But if _only_ we knew how such_ tragedy _came about! Woe, what cruel _fate,_ to force you to look at all those rippling muscles!"

"It was nothing like that!" Isabeau protested. "Livilla said-" She snapped her mouth shut, obviously not wanting to implicate her friend, but Ives had already seized upon the lapse.

"Aha! I might have known Livilla had a hand in this little misadventure of my brother's. She is quite the... Ah, lala, how to put this in a manner vaguely kind..."

"Oh, don't mind me. Say what's on your mind," Livilla said from behind Ives.

"Sneak," Ives said, as if in epiphany, turning to face her with a grin.

Livilla shrugged. "As they say, it takes one to know one." Moving past him close enough to accidentally step on his foot in passing, she thrust out a bag to Jean. "Here."

Ives had to admit, he'd never seen Jean look quite so hesitant to offer a smile. He'd be wary of Livilla's 'gifts' after that, too. Of course, he was still a gentleman, and still had to thank the lady.

"Oh? Thank you. What are-?"

"A new shirt and pants. I suggest you don't share them with your brother, but then, I tailored them to you and not to him." She stepped back as Jean took the bag, looking him up and down. "They won't fit him nearly as well as they will you. He's not quite as impressive as you are."

"Madame!" Ives gasped in protest, but after a moment, he looked quite pensive. "Well ... he does have a rather toned, taut ass, and spectacular abs that, sadly, I just don't quite carry the same. Though I would argue I have finer calves and a sleeker shape, no?" Jean, of course, couldn't possibly be redder.

"Not from what I remember," Livilla said with a small shrug, then turned and walked past Ives once more, the second and equally accidental step of her foot on his delaying his inevitable comment until she'd left the room.

Isabeau, meanwhile, stepped forward and looked curiously into the bag Jean still held before patting the warrior sympathetically on the shoulder. Leaning forward slightly, she spoke just above a whisper to Jean. "For the record, I much preferred looking at you than your brother. Just ignore the lout when he teases you." With a quick pat of his arm, she stood and headed for the exit, glaring at Ives.

Ives laughed as the words caused a new burst of bright crimson to consume his brother's face. Even while Jean's stammering failed to form a single coherent word, Ives put a dramatic hand over his heart in answer to Isabeau's adorably angry little glare, the perfect picture of melodramatic innocence. "_Madame!_ You wound me!"

Once both women were gone, Isabeau's imperious departure carrying all the dignity of the Empress herself, the men sat in contemplative silence; Ives with a grin, and Jean shaking his head. When the silence had run its course, Jean looked to Ives, who sensed the eyes enough to return the glance.

"She's seen you naked?"

"Shut up, _mon frére._"


	6. My Gift to You

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Six: My Gift to You  
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"I saw the schedules downstairs." Ives hovered near the door to Artana's office, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. "_Amour_, while I can understand you are at the height of a disagreement with her, I think that giving Livilla duty to clean the mess hall was ..."

"I needed another. If she is concerned for the plight of Orlesian Elvhen, then she can do as they must do."

Ives sighed. She hadn't even looked up from her paperwork. "... I was going to say _blatant_, but I think that you are well aware of that fact. I truly do hate to be the one to wonder it, but don't you think that perhaps this has become a little petty? I think you are a marvelous thief and that you have nothing to fret about on the matter of being caught. Isn't a difference in opinion something that should be accepted?"

He could tell she wasn't buying in. Actually, he even suspected she was about to break her quill. With a frown on his face and weight on his heart, Ives knew he would need to voice some unpopular criticism. "... I understand. You acted out of character in an impulse, and now you are fighting to be consistent. That is the root of this, right? You're perfectly entitled to have been angry. Even I was angry." She snuffed, and he knew it was disbelieving. It was true. He didn't often get angry, and sometimes when he did, it was almost impossible to tell. Ives sighed. "I know that you can move beyond it. I love you."

Since Artana clearly needed time to consider it herself, Ives turned to leave. If only there were a way to intervene before Livilla had to-

He snapped his fingers. _Marie._ As head Housekeeper of the Keep, he would be able to beg a favor of her without alerting Artana to the change in her orders, and then, perhaps, Livilla would be more amenable to a suggestion of a truce. Swiftly his steps took him down to the sewing room, where Marie could be found during most of the day, but they faltered when he heard a familiar voice echo down the hall.

"-fulfill my duties, since the Warden-Commander _commands _it." Livilla's tone bordered between calm and sarcastic, making Ives wince even as he hesitated just outside the threshold of the sewing room. "You need not inconvenience anyone else on _my_ account, Marie. She'll get over this childishness soon enough."

He positively grimaced that time, grateful that Artana hadn't heard that _last_ comment. It would have guaranteed Livilla mess hall duties for another year or more - and that was _not_ conducive to his plans.

"I really think you're overreacting, my dear." Marie's soothing voice was a welcome balm, but not, sadly, enough to calm Livilla's wrath.

"Perhaps," was the curt reply, and Ives only had that as warning before finding himself face to face with an angry mage.

He waved his fingers at her in an attempt to lighten the mood. _"Bonjour, chérie."_

She groaned and pushed past him, a shake of her head indicating her reaction to his presence more clearly than words. With a sigh, he headed into the sewing room and flopped onto a pile of clothes waiting to be mended.

"That is quite the mournful look on your face. Trouble in the tower?" That was Marie's subtle way of inquiring after Artana.

"A bit of friction, you might say, between the tower and those lower down." He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how on Thedas he could form a truce between the two strong-willed women, much less reconcile them.

Marie looked thoughtful for a moment as her needle flashed in the lamplight. "Perhaps you need to reconsider your tactics, lad. Rather than a frontal assault, you should sneak in from the side. You are not your brother, after all. Use your charm to gather allies and gently bring them together. Perhaps sweeten the offer a bit, even, as you do with me."

Ives brightened, plans already swirling in his head. "I could _kiss_ you, you scheming genius, you!" He leapt to his feet and proceeded to do so: sparing her lips; once upon a time there was a clumsy man who thought it wise to peck Marie on the lips, and he'd had to pluck a needle from his cheek when Marie slapped him with her stitchery.

His new mission firmly in place, he sprinted to his room and feverishly dug through his sock drawer, looking for a particular small box. Pulling it out, he checked inside for the delicate silver and blue earrings he'd acquired for Isabeau shortly after her arrival in Val Royeaux. They truly did suit her, he had to admit, just as the blonde merchant he'd purchased them from had assured him - repeatedly. Carefully he put the box into his pocket, deciding there was no better time to attempt a softening of her opinion of him than the present.

A short walk and several long moments of thought later, wherein he had turned over and over again the words in his head that he hoped would mend all the bridges surrounding him, Ives knocked on Isabeau's door. A gasp was audible shortly thereafter, and a twinge of fear sprung to life within him. He decided it was best to play it casually, hoping it was simply that she wasn't decent. "Sister~!" He called in a sing-song voice. "Are you taking guests?"

After a considerable hesitation in which that nervousness grew, the latch of the door finally turned and the heavy iron hinges squeaked as it opened. Ives was so startled by what he saw that the words she spoke hardly filtered through to his brain.

"Of _course_, Ives!" She said, but all he heard was the gleaming wetness of her lips and the artful deshabille of her hair. "For _you_, anything!" The dress she wore was fascinating, but the truly brilliant sadist who had designed it had eschewed the easy seduction of exposed shoulders or a low neckline. Those areas were well covered in form-clinging silk, contrary to _normal_ Orlesian fashion. Still, though the material concealed _most_ of her fair white skin, a square of cloth had somehow been removed from the middle of her chest, exposing tempting mounds _almost_ to the point of unforgivable scandal, even by Orlesian standards. He had to admit the aforementioned hair had rather leading curls that pooled just so perfectly in the framed pale flesh of her chest. "Have we not shared the passion of a kiss?" At this point, her hand extended and his eyes stole to it instead, just in time to properly hear her add to her imperious gesture, "I insist you come in."

By that point, Ives had licked his lips. While Jean would have undoubtedly had a heart attack to be subject to such teasing, Ives was handling it famously... and she did probably enjoy the fact she'd clearly gained the attention of a man trained to be a Court Bard - who, tradition insisted, were the most jaded of all creatures when it came to beauty and the fairer sex, not that he particularly adhered to that stereotype. It was more important that _she_ feel accomplished. He slipped his hand into hers and bent almost instinctively into an elaborate bow over her hand as he held it high enough to kiss as any courtier would.

Apparently, he'd been silent too long. Isabeau drew him into the room as he straightened and leaned forward to close the door behind them. "Something have your tongue?"

"Ah. Ah, well, no." Shifting both hands behind his back, he marveled at how he now had the privilege of friendship with two stunning individuals who had inadequate views of their own inner and outer beauty. "I simply..." A brief pause followed, after which he cleared his throat lightly and put on a charming smile best and previously used for _getting something_, even while one of his hands reached back and locked the door behind him. Now, perhaps more than ever, privacy was paramount. "Dearest Isabeau, I do happen to have a gift for you, though it was not my sole intent in finding my way to this lovely paradise within the Keep. Ah! And I should say, the gift is not soap or anything terribly practical this time. Would you care to guess?"

She clapped her hands together excitedly and bounced, causing his gaze to follow suit before he blinked and firmly vowed _not to look._ "Let me see!" She craned her neck to peer around him, and his vow was quickly broken as he followed her movements, eyes quickly snapping to meet her own when she looked up at him with a slight pout on her face. He bit back a chuckle, realizing she was playing the Game with him once more - Isabeau was not one to pout in earnest. "What, no hint?" she demanded. "Not even a little one?"

"Well, I could say that my family is a bit of a hint," he suggested, though he persisted in holding his hands behind his back. The gift was in his pocket, of course, but since she had put it in her own mind that he was holding it behind his back, this was far more entertaining. "Shall I say, what we do, not what we're renowned for... granted, fairly much any way you direct your thoughts on the Durantes, those are much one and the same, aren't they?" Since the Durantes were known as much for heated romances as their trading in gold and silver, it was a bit of inflammatory fun for him to tuck his chin and peer at what was offered in the fantastic new dress she'd procured.

She bit her lip, perhaps to fight a giggle, and punched him lightly on the arm - enough to make him rock on his feet, at least. She was certainly a warrior, no matter the inviting expanse of lush, pale- He dragged his thoughts back to the conversation as she said, "Lout. You don't necessarily have to admire the buffet, you know. What would your brother say of your wandering eyes?"

As Ives did his best to recover his balance, he chuckled - _almost_ nervously - and rubbed the spot that she had hit. He was decidedly not warrior trained, and the poor, delicate little bard had to venture that he was probably going to bruise now. "Interesting you should mention a buffet in the context of Jean and wandering eyes," he murmured cryptically, then let a chortle override his words. "While, sadly, I shan't answer your inquiry of my brother's opinion, I _will_ give you a hint to your gift! Aside from impeccable taste in women, particularly of the fine elvhen variety such as your roommate, you perhaps know that my family deals in gold and silver, _no_? We own most of the mines in the West, after all, and a good few in the South. As you might imagine with such a nature to our business, we have a few ... connections, hm?"

"Jewelry?" she guessed, smile bright: a trifle _too_ bright, a bit too fixed, perhaps, but genuine as far as Ives could tell. "You're too kind, ser, to someone who spends most of her time in armor. What is the occasion?"

He hesitated to pull any package out (little or otherwise) when her smile gave him any pause whatsoever, the concern of having misjudged jumping into his mind. It wasn't often he did so, but it was certainly possible - particularly when he hadn't known someone too long. "Ah, but that was somewhat the occasion. I thought that perhaps you were loath to be in such a place that many warriors are - a balance between a strong, dangerous, well-trained behemoth and a beautiful and delicate flower as fine as any Orlesian Comtesse ever was. Never too much one or the other, but always a blend of the two. Tell me, do you terribly hate jewelry?"

The smile faltered, and she looked away. She seemed to deflate a bit, then met his gaze with eyes that spoke of a long-standing wariness. "I... I'm sorry. Gifts... probably don't mean the same thing to you that they do to me." A glance over her shoulder to the vanity told him that it also meant something quite _specific_ at this point in time. "And you want something from me in return, I would imagine." Now the suspicion was in her tone, ever so lightly.

"What! Gifts are marvelous, and they mustn't always be a thing, nor for something in return. You wound me." He took his hands from behind his back and held them instead over his heart. "Ah, while it may be _somewhat_ true that a gift is a most effective bribe, the thing for which I yearn is immaterial." For the sake of drama, he swept his hands to his sides from his heart and sighed. "I wished for nothing more than the beautiful smile of a lovely maiden. Granted, it seems I've been derailed from my gift, and along with it anything I_ might_ have gained beyond that smile I so wanted."

She finally did giggle, though there was a suspicious sheen in her eyes, but this time the smile was genuine. "I'm sorry," she said, and a dreaded sniffle made Ives quickly dip for his handkerchief to give to her. She took it with gratitude and delicately dabbed at her eyes. "You know, it occurs to me that we have such a poor sense of timing, you and I." Again, her gaze fell on the vanity, and she sighed. "I suppose I should just show you."

"Show me...?" Though of course she would show him, knowing _then_ and knowing _now_ were different, so he had to fill the _now_ to tide him over until the _then_. He followed her as she went to the vanity and sat down, himself standing just to her side, lips set in a small frown.

Her hands reached up to a modest box, where they hovered for a moment before reaching in quickly and withdrawing a second, smaller box which she dropped onto the vanity quickly as if touching it burned her hands. "This was on my pillow when I returned from practice earlier," she said quietly. "With a note from... from him."

"Him..." No wonder she had taken so poorly to the prospect of a gift. Ives winced, his frown only deepening. "Well, you've had your fill of gifts, then, I'm sure. Is it ... something that you would like to talk about, _cherie_? It can truly help to be heard, and I am perhaps a lout, but I am a caring ear and a sympathetic touch, with a shoulder that can't possibly be stained no matter how many tears you might need to let out." His hand gingerly rested on her shoulder, but there was simply no way he could think about _that_ with her looking so shaken. He could see it beneath the smiles and the topic changes now, and he wondered how he'd not picked it up earlier. Of course, the dress had been _quite_ the distraction, leaving his mind engaged in a different Game than it should have been.

"I-I'm not sure. I thought perhaps the candles would keep him away from our quarters, at least, but..." She gestured listlessly at the box. "Apparently not. The presents are always beautiful, or useful - like my sword - but this one was something that once belonged to my mother. She always wore it, but it was missing from her neck when they found-" The recitation faltered, and her eyes again filled with tears as she brought the handkerchief up to her face. This time, more than a few tears leaked out as she began to cry in earnest. Swiftly he arranged himself so that he could comfort her as best he could, kneeling behind where she sat and holding her carefully.

He reached with one hand to crack the box open and peek within, though, and its contents caused a surge of anger - a reaction he made sure Isabeau did not see. They didn't match the gentle shushing, or the way he drew back his hand to hold her and rub her arms just as the other already was. It seemed no coincidence that the pendant had appeared on her table today, and Ives knew it was even less of one that in his pocket were a matching set of earrings. _How_ Martin had managed that part, Ives could only speculate. No, he wouldn't give her the gift now - and he had to reconsider Martin's manipulation of the fair maid in his arms by a few measures.

The storm eventually passed, dwindling into a few sniffles, and he continued to rub his hands along her arms as he sought for a way to pull her lightly away from her current dark place. "Ah, so even the sword was from him? Pity, I was considering gifting a shield to you, but I was too lazy to carry it all the way across the Keep. My poor back and all that, you know."

He was very much relieved when an unladylike snort emerged between two sniffs. "Can you imagine a shield with _this_ dress?" She looked in the mirror and took a few moments to correct as much damage as she could with the handkerchief, and tweaked her hair slightly with her fingers before sighing and shaking her head. "That wouldn't really work, you know. I'd..." She lightly skimmed the valley between her mounds and giggle, weak but present. "I'd flop out."

Ives chuckled, as well, with the strength she couldn't quite give herself just now. "Against _certain_ individuals, I would think it might be vastly more effective! Perchance the simplest victory you ever had. Hmm," he paused, a satirically pensive expression striking his face. His lips pursed, his eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head as he added, "I'd venture there isn't a single reason you couldn't kill a man in the nude. In fact, if you ever think to kill me, I'd rather appreciate if you would do so in all your glory. I think it would soften the blow to be slain by a woman in the idyllic spirit of Andraste." At this point he nudged her, a twinkle in his eyes and a soft, dreamy sigh in his chest. A good counter to the less than dreamy state her face was _currently_ in, and he noted that she raised an eyebrow as she persisted in mopping the mess up.

"This must be quite the favor you have in mind," she quipped. "But don't think for a second that I dressed this way for you, lout, no matter the timing. I was-" She blushed, the faintest of red on her cheeks, and Ives arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, do not think you can avoid explaining _this_ little mystery," he said. When a tired but genuine giggle emerged from behind the cloth that was working at the paint on her face, he continued, "After all, most men would have perished in joyful decadence at the sight of such... _magnificence."_ He somehow refrained from using such words as _valleys_ and _mounds,_ no matter how desperately the need rose within him. "Ah, imagine if it had been my nobler half - why, he would have combusted into a blushing cinder on the spot!"

"_Ives!"_ she protested, but it could not be denied that she was laughing now, lifting the mood in the room considerably - as well as _other things_, Ives thought as he shifted his position in what he _hoped_ was a suitably subtle manner. That dress was _truly_ enchanting, after all. "Maker, you're just as bad as Livilla!"

He could not _possibly_ let that one go. "Oh? Ah, lala, she does seem to have a fascination with making cloth _disappear_, does she not? A trait I would not mind exploring more fully if the opportunity arose." Of course, such an opportunity would not arise, not with Artana willing to let him grace her bed, but the gasp and light smack against his arm from Isabeau made the little jab well worth the effort. "Ah, but please, I must know, _ma petite fleur:_ the marvelous dress, the tendrils of hair, the colors on your face... Why, if I did not know you, I would think you were competing to be declared _Le Madame de Orlais!"_

The towel wiped away the last of her damaged face paint from her mouth as she rolled her eyes. "Lout."

"_Chérie,"_ he returned with a devilish wink. When that still did not elicit more than a glare, he fell into a pout and pined slightly, letting the faintest of sounds escape the back of his throat.

Luckily for him, Isabeau was no stronger against the force of his pouts than Artana. With a sigh, she capitulated - to his inner glee. "As you wish, _mon cher."_ She put the handkerchief on top of the box holding the pendant, staring into the mirror as her smile slowly faded. "I wanted... a distraction. No, that's not the right word." Her hand moved from the box to rest on her neck, where the pendant would have rested were she to wear it. "I wanted to imagine, for a little while, what my life might have been like if Martin had not... If my parents hadn't..." She closed her eyes, but the tears did not start again. After a deep breath, she opened them again, his use of the momentary blindness bringing him a half-step closer. "Mama was considered a beauty of Florian's court. There were even rumors of an affair with him, but she said that is all they were - rumors. After- after they died, I always wondered if she would have taken me to Val Royeaux, to dance upon the stage of public scrutiny as she did... If I would have performed as admirably."

"Ah, _chérie,"_ he said softly, his impractically tender heart breaking a little. Unable to restrain himself from empathy for his dear new friend, he knelt behind her and embraced her, holding for comfort rather than any other reason - and for once, given the circumstances, his body complied. "You would have been what you are now: a shining jewel of petite perfection amidst the false glitter that is the nobility of Val Royeaux." Gently he kissed her hair, then loosed a faint chuckle as an image entered his head. "And bold enough to capture the curiosity of a certain Court Bard, as well, I would imagine. So... not very different from now, _non?_ Save that perhaps you would not have known Livilla, or known the satisfaction of mastering the blade." Ives understood her mood all too well, after all: he had a few of those _what if_s lurking in the back of his own mind. With a final squeeze, he released her but stayed close so he could look at her in the mirror with a hand resting on her shoulder. "For what little comfort it is, I am most grateful both you and Livilla tread upon the paths which led you here."

She smiled tremulously at him, taking up the handkerchief again to wipe at the brimming moisture in her eyes. Again she took a deep breath, then closed her eyes and shook her head in a sharp motion. "So serious! I am not dressed for that! Let us talk of other things, lout." Setting the cloth back upon the box and pushing it away, she looked at him and pursed her lips slightly. "Ah, that's right: we were discussing your 'favor.' And before you start: no, I won't ask Livilla to make clothes disappear from anyone on demand, so don't bother asking. Especially for poor Jean. I think the man has suffered enough, and you not _nearly_ enough." She tapped her face thoughtfully. "Or perhaps I misunderstand your visit entirely. You're really here to see Livilla, aren't you? She's far more interesting, anyway."

Ives shook his head. "To begin, I must disagree that I have indeed suffered enough, and Jean not nearly enough! I have had to live with the man since the very day we were born, after all. And furthermore, you are wrong again. Livilla is precisely as interesting as you are. Two elegant buds of pale white and rosy blush which feed the flitting hummingbird do not open to be less robust and beautiful because their blooms do not match or don't brighten the same hour. Also, I haven't come to request disappearing clothes. Ah, well... not as such," he added, pausing a moment to rub his chin, "though it may not be _entirely_ unrelated. No, no," he said again, flitting away the tangent by waving his hand dismissively. "I come bribing so that you might help me a little with Artana, actually. She's ... incredibly irate due to last night's little mishap with the aforementioned pale bud, be you the rosy one."

Isabeau blinked and turned to face Ives directly. "What mishap? What are you talking about?" Her eyes flickered to the door and then back to Ives. "Livilla mentioned something about getting cleaning duties because she'd earned the Commander's displeasure, but I thought that was more related to exposing Artana's lover to all eyes than anything else."

"Not as such, no. Artana is Dalish... she's not shy about the body - I don't think you can be, living in nature and sharing everything as they do. She is, however, clandestine about _some_ things. Livilla caught us last night. I thought she would have told you." His lips tilted downwards for a moment, but it didn't stop him from continuing. "There so happens to be a famous thorn in the Guard's side around Val Royeaux, one that has even been mentioned here in the Keep. We do have to keep explaining that just because they _call_ this individual the Ghoul, it doesn't mean they're actually tainted, and thus we're no more apt to hunt them than the Guard who, of course, dislikes us more for saying so. Ah, lala, a vicious cycle."

"The Ghoul?"

"All the rage in the past few years. As I say, a thorn in the side." He watched as she considered it, the clearest signs of thought - from the slightly scrunched nose to the slight biting of her lower lip - perfectly adorable upon her face.

"Pale skin, eyes that glow in the dark..." An epiphany seemingly struck her as a grin lit her face, and it was contagious enough for Ives to mirror it as she said, "I assume the part about the Ghoul eating the children of rich merchants is not true, then?"

"Well, not of the _Ghoul_, at least. That individual was someone else entirely, but I suppose any scapegoat will do in some situations." His shoulders rolled casually, not matching the gravity of what he'd just confessed, if he was being serious. "Livilla seems to believe that it's too obvious, and that Artana is risking the Wardens' honor. That's what she said to her, at any rate, and I'm sure you know how well Artana's taken such criticism on the back of a gesture she considered threatening. It's all remedied, of course - all except Artana's opinion of Livilla - and I suppose that's more the heart of my presence here tonight. Artana is a proud Warden, but she's not _pleased_ to be one. If I thought she could _hate_ anything, I think I might use that word, no?"

"Most people would hate their killer," Livilla said from the doorway. "That seems to be a fairly logical reaction to what happened to her." A glint of metal flashed in her hand as she closed the door behind her and came into the room. Her scarred eyebrow rose when she saw Isabeau's dress and Ives' proximity, but she simply shook her head and went to the wardrobe, opening it to rummage within. "She's been a Warden for ten years?"

After recovering from the startling appearance of Livilla through what had most certainly been a locked door, Ives turned at the waist to face her without moving too far from Isabeau. If she had picked the lock, it had been done without the slightest of sounds, and that didn't seem like a skill she ought to have. Him, yes, that made sense - but Livilla? "... _Oui_, I don't imagine she had lied about that. It was on record that Riordan orchestrated her Joining, and he passed with the Blight. Everyone knows it... He was a man more honorable in the end than most." Ives took a sincere, reverent moment of silence for the thought of a fellow Orlesian Warden, but the mourning didn't end with an old hero. "Artana ... is well aware that she's dying. I _suppose_ you could say she doesn't care... but you _did_ manage to make it seem elsewise yesterday."

"Of course she cares. Only a fool wouldn't, and she's certainly no fool." Livilla emerged from the wardrobe with a small package wrapped in linen. Closing the wardrobe, she stalked to her bed and sat, handling the package with a tenderness Ives hadn't before seen in her. "She wouldn't take the risks she does if she didn't care, or if she thought her life would last more than a few more moons. She must have initially been exposed to an enormous amount of the taint to be so steeped in it this many years later. The Joining saved her? Just as with Isabeau?" At Ives' short nod, she sighed and shook her head. "Given her appearance, I'm astonished she lived long enough to be Joined. It is an extreme degree of tainting, the like of which I have only seen once before. And generally those flames burn even brighter, and for shorter periods of time."

"No better description for Artana, I fear. You're right, though. On most days I don't see it myself, for I see nothing more than the woman I love, but she's begun to look ... ill, hasn't she? Certainly not so robust as she was, but she still tries to maintain that energy." He sighed. "Ah, lala. A worry, to be sure. You, though - you ... seem to be quite the expert on all one could want to know. How is it you came to be so terribly observant, my pretty pale bud?"

Livilla laid her package on the bed next to her, then reached up and tapped her amulet thoughtfully. Ives tensed, recalling his last encounter with it, but her hand dropped away as her dark eye scrutinized him. "Tell me, lout, do I feel like a Warden to you?"

Though the question was a little unexpected and made him blink, after a moment's thought he was able to say, "Not particularly, no - I make Jean use his Warden sense if Artana's not around. It's second nature for her." He was leaning against the table now, his arms crossed over his chest and a view of either lady with just a turn of his head. "I don't feel you at this time, for certain."

Livilla nodded, her fingers already working at the clasp of her amulet before he'd finished answering. When it came loose, she set it aside on the mattress. "And now?"

Ives _felt_ the change, a rapid and overwhelming one which chilled the room so swiftly he jumped. _"Maker_, you're at least as tainted as Artana is!" He blinked, tilting his head for added effect as he wondered, "I don't suppose you can bottle the secret it is that you've found? I have a good use for it in mind, you see."

"I'm sure you do." She took up her amulet and secured it around her neck once more. "And were it not for this artifact, I would have been dead long since myself. My own exposure to the taint came through Tevinter manipulation when I was captive. I cannot think Artana's came about in the same manner. Still, I think a discussion between myself and Artana would be..." Her hand settled on the package next to her as she looked up at Ives. "...beneficial for all parties involved. Although that does beg the question of why you are here." She glanced at Isabeau and her still-disheveled hair. "Since I think I know you both well enough to realize it was not for the _obvious_."

"_Livilla!"_ Isabeau protested indignantly.

"Oh! Were these harsh words hiding a vote of confidence? I think I shall take it." Ives slid away from Isabeau only after squeezing her shoulder, satisfactorily convinced that her mood had improved. "Why must I be here for something, hm? Why could I not enjoy the presence of two fantastic women, whom I should hope consider me as I do them - to be friends most dear? Why, I suppose I did attempt to dote upon Isabeau with a gift, and it _may_ have had its tiny ulterior motives, but it was only an _attempt_!" There was a distinctive click as he snapped his fingers and held one skywards. "And might I add that wasn't even my trump card of bribery. The first intent was to arrange for another to take your shift in the mess hall, in fact. It was just good opportunity to try and have Isabeau talk you into mending the bridge we've seen getting demolished by the ogre." He shrugged, then let his arms fold across his chest in a fantastically nonchalant manner. "Ah, well, yet still not the trump card, indeed."

"So it _was_ Artana who modified the schedule. I might have known." Livilla shook her head. "I suppose I can understand to an extent the feeling that life is slipping away from you, but... she forgets herself, I think, and where she came from." Her hand tapped thoughtfully on the bundle next to her. "Well, since I suppose you'll keep that foolish look on your face until I ask, what is your trump card, lout?"

"I can have any number of foolish looks on my face. I like this one," he teased, turning his eyes crossed and pushing up his lower lip until he looked perfectly ridiculous. "It can get a little tiring, though," he said with his lip still tucked up, the words turning into a muffled jumble. "Would be better if you went ahead and asked again. Just to really be certain you meant to ask."

Livilla and Isabeau exchanged a glance, and Isabeau nodded. He hardly had a moment to realize it was coming before she swatted him on his buttock. "What is your trump card, then?"

"Ah! Lala!" He yelped, hopping forward and rubbing his poor bottom. "The most abuse it's received in years... Hmph, so cruel. Well. I'll _have you know_ my ultimate motive was to see if you and Artana might come back to speaking terms _for_ my trump card. There is a very intriguing loophole she's found in the rules that control the Grey Wardens, and I think we ought to take advantage of it. There is a Thaig that needs clearing - do you know Thaigs, Livilla _chérie_? It's not such common knowledge, if it's not that _particular_ rock you've climbed out from under. These ruins once belonged to a Dwarven clan as their familial home - and it happens to be a mission of reasonable import to Weisshaupt, considering the Darkspawn that infest them. As the brilliant, if slightly abusive, Isabeau may know," he added, brows both raised to the warrior in question, "our center of command, the distant Weisshaupt, does much of the hand-tying around here. There is little they do not ultimately approve or disapprove directly - or, at least, through wax stamps."

"The point," he continued, sensing Livilla's rising impatience, presumably because she wished him to _get on with it,_ "comes to this: the two things Weisshaupt does not govern is the Calling and Reasonable Import. We have both in our particular instance. We can take several months on a mission to this thaig, in full understanding that Artana is not to return, but our troupe must be five or more to receive clearance." Sighing woefully, Ives raised a hand from his ass to his heart - places some would argue were sort of the same in a bard. "Jean, Artana, _moi_ ... it is true that Jean is the educated one, but alas, that is two beneath five."

"The three of you?" Livilla snorted. "Are you sure you would leave the tent enough to-"

"Ah, I think Livilla means that it isn't a very _rounded_ group," Isabeau interrupted hastily, just as Ives was reaching the point of his chuckle that risked being followed by too brazen of a retort. "Ideally, one should have as many warriors as rogues, even if one of the rogues is an Archer. As well, a mage on a long journey is essential. Even without combat, the further one travels from civilization, the more difficult it is to deal with injuries from accidents and illnesses, much less combat wounds. We may be newly made Wardens, but our training is... unique, I think. And we have a proven ability to keep secrets - useful for this journey."

She looked over at Livilla, their eyes meeting for a few moments. Again they spoke without words, needing only Isabeau's quirked eyebrow and Livilla's faint sigh to come to a decision. "Five does seem a bit small to clear an entire thaig, though large enough to clear the rumor of one." Turning to Ives, she raised an eyebrow. "So, you sneaky lout, this purported thaig of yours... any interesting rumors or legends along the way we would happen to stop and investigate? Does this thaig even actually _exist?_ I don't really envision you spending Artana's last few months underground."

"It does, actually!" Ives insisted, holding both hands up before him in defense. Not that his honor had much hope of being defended before this crowd. "Many Wardens - _most_, even - do prefer to go down in a shining glint of glory amidst a sea of gritty darkness than to lay addled and rotting in a bed. Such a thaig is a perfect opportunity, and intentionally a bit ... excessive a target."

Ives turned to pace a few steps away, leaning forward and putting his weight on the back of a nearby chair. He could see the both of them in the dusky, spotted mirror before which Isabeau sat, and he preferred that view with the knowledge there would be some interesting reactions forthcoming. "You ... are rather astute, though. I will admit that we may have a side-trip planned. Ah, but who am I kidding? The thaig _is_ the side trip - Artana could probably clear it herself if she had Jean to run circles around the Ogres, waving his shield to distract them."

At this point he rolled his shoulders. It was harder to manipulate those he cared for, but it was really for the best to get them away from Orlais altogether. Yes, Artana needed help to find her salvation and her freedom from the Wardens, but he also felt a nomadic lifestyle really might be the best option for these two. At the least, for the moment.

"Amulets... they _are_ interesting, are they not, _mon fleur_? We haven't the luck of one of yours, but there _is_ a trio of legendary amulets, rumored, if you will... to cure the Darkspawn taint. Has this plan perhaps been stewed and brewed long enough for your discerning palate?"

"Oh, a flower, now, am I? I hope you don't think I'm delicate." Her hand did reach up to wrap around her amulet, though, and her face was more thoughtful than her comment. "Cure the taint... That... might be possible, but it's more likely to be a fool's errand unless those amulets are from-" She stopped herself and glanced at the linen-wrapped object next to her. "Still... hope is difficult to discard, is it not?" She looked back to Ives, a frown on her face. "Will Artana survive long enough to find the amulets? She is quite close to her time, and... and in that I did her no service with my... earlier disagreement." She grimaced, and Ives remembered the rage which had consumed Artana the day after that 'disagreement', a rage fueled in part by the taint which lay within. Wisely, he voice no further incrimination, sensing that even such an obscure regret was more heartfelt than many others' effusive apologies. "I fear for her ability to make such a journey."

Ives turned to give her the dignity of a face to face conversation at this point, the mirror seeming a trifle more inappropriate. "She is a fighter," he assured her. "Artana sees this as a possibility for freedom. Should she find these medallions and survive the process, then she can - we all can - live our lives, debt paid to the Wardens and invisible to their methods of tracking. We'd just have never returned from a dangerous, deadly mission - something many others have done before us. She … wants to see her clan. I think she'll survive, so long as there's hope." And he smiled, sad a thing as it was, and glanced towards the bedroom door. "I want her to do both."

"Hope is a wonderful thing, but it should never be your entire plan." Livilla picked up the object next to her and carefully unwound the cloth from around it, revealing a small hand mirror which she held in front of her face. "Perhaps in this I can help her. I've learned a few things about controlling excessive exposure to the Beyo- the Fade." Her fingers reached for the amulet again, and she stared into the flat, oval surface before her.

Isabeau shifted in her seat. She'd obviously seen the artifact in Livilla's hands before, and just as obviously was uncomfortable around it. Part of her unease became clearer in the next few moments when the temperature in the room plummeted. Bumps rose along Ives' arms as the tang and hum of lyrium filled the air, and he regarded Livilla with a wary caution. Magic was useful, but also an unknown element.

Livilla's eye abruptly turned from pitch black to brilliant white, and the mirror in her hand began to hum faintly, a song that all three in the room recognized: the siren of the taint. Almost as soon as it could be heard, however, it _changed,_ softening to an almost lyrical melody rather than the hum that always scraped at the very edge of hearing for Grey Wardens.

"That is the least unpleasant turn I have ever heard that melody take." Though the magic did make him uneasy, the sound was fascinating to a trained ear. Perhaps not something he would enjoy to hear in concert, but fascinating nonetheless. "Not terribly different than the tune of lyrium. A shame it happens to be from a mirror, though. If I am honest, Artana is almost phobic of them."

"I wonder why," Isabeau murmured, though most of her concentration was on Livilla. "But Livilla always sounds like that, if you get close enough. Granted, you have to be _very_ close to her." She stood and edged past Ives, ignoring his eyebrow raised in speculation at her last comment, and rounded the bed so she could get closer to her friend. It was an intriguing motion because of the concern on her face, and Ives wasn't certain what to make of what was happening.

His scrutiny continued as the music faded into the background once again, the noise apparently taking the white away from Livilla's eye with it. Again he startled and bounded half a step forward when Livilla began to totter. If Isabeau hadn't beaten him to the motion, he would have helped to support her slumped body. Apparently this was not an unexpected reaction to ... whatever she was doing. " ... What is she doing? Is it ... dangerous for her?"

Isabeau continued to hold her up as Livilla took some deep breaths. "In her mind, that's no reason to stop if she can help others," she said quietly. Ives straightened in response to that, his lips held shut. There was no smart response for that. He knew the same all too well himself.

With a visible effort, Livilla pulled herself away from Isabeau's hand, though she gave her friend a wan smile before setting the mirror aside and again fiddling with her amulet. Holding it out to Ives, she said briskly, "Make sure Artana wears this for at least one day. More would be preferable, but I know she can be unreasonably stubborn." Ignoring Ives' raised eyebrow at that remark, she continued, "The spell I placed on it should offset some of the taint in her blood and give her more time. It's not permanent - I've not yet come across a true cure as of yet - but it will sustain her where hope might fail." She swayed slightly, and Isabeau quickly moved closer to her, steadying her, but the outstretched hand with the amulet did not drop. Ives was too wary of that amulet to simply grab it, and the ghost of pain around his neck made him run his fingertips around the dry, slightly pink spots that lingered quite some time out now from _the incident_. "I'll need the amulet back, but not for a few days. That should be enough time for the spell to take effect."

Burn him once, shame on the person or thing at fault of the burning. Twice was into the realm of _his own damn fault_, so that disposition to not grab the amulet was rather insistent. "Well ... I've hoped for her health since before her body caught up with fate's design. I think it's fair to accept any help I can receive. I think you are blossoming from a bud after all, _mon fleur_." As Ives reached for the amulet his fingertips danced and stretched, the odd hesitation pausing his hand for a few more moments before he reached out and took hold of the amulet swiftly, akin to ripping a bandage off in a hurry to get past the sting.

For all his trouble and hesitation, he received nothing more than a wave of warmth which washed over him, and the vaguest sense of an animalistic chuckle, as if he had amused someone_._

"I declare, lout, you acted as if it were going to bite you. It is merely an amulet. And I am no flower." Even before Ives could retort, she pressed her fingertips against the bridge of her nose and again swayed slightly. That was reason enough for him to simply smile and leave her alone.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Isabeau rise and dash to the wardrobe, returning with a thick robe to bundle her friend into more quickly than he himself could have even thought of the idea. "She'll need to rest, I think. I'm no mage, but I've lived with her long enough to see that... whatever she did wasn't easy."

Indeed, as soon as Livilla was wrapped inside the robe, she buried herself into the pillows on her bed and curled into herself, cradling the mirror in the crook of her arm. "Ah, I understand. I can sympathize with the desire for a pillow."

Moving her hand over the mage's head one last time in a soothing gesture, Isabeau sighed and stood, going once more to the wardrobe to stand in front of it with a thoughtful look on her face. "I assume we'll need a few days to finish getting ready for this trip?"

"It will take a little longer than that. I know that Artana had to submit for approval with the stipulation of 'two recruits.' I'm sure she'll need her fellow Warden-Commander to handle the rest of the paperwork in her absence if she's allowed to depart, so she will undoubtedly prepare it all for him. It is a plan a long time in process, but one that must be executed perfectly, you see." He shrugged, taking the troublesome amulet to his vest pocket. "Alas, I must go. We'll discuss it many a time before we depart, I'm sure, but there is an amulet I would dearly love to persuade Artana to wear. Until next time?" Ives held his hand out for hers, one brow waggling higher than the other to try and pry a response from her.

She laughed lightly and nodded. "Just send us a list of what we need prepare, and I will make sure it is done." Laying a hand on his arm, she strained on her tiptoes and lightly pressed her lips to his cheek. "And thank you, Ives. You've a kind heart for all your other flaws." A twinkle lit her eyes as she walked him to the door, and somehow she maneuvered him outside and closed the door behind him without giving him the opportunity to correct the grievous error of thinking he might have _any_ flaws_._

_Ah, you win this round of the Game, ma chérie, _he chuckled in quiet admiration. Clutching the amulet close, he headed up to Artana's quarters, bracing himself for the argument he assumed was inevitable.

Artana was not pleased to hear that Ives had taken it upon himself to discuss the nature of her illness, and hadn't exactly looked on the amulet with the most gratitude possible. He was exhausted from trying to explain how he'd done it out of love from her, yet loved her no less for how vehemently she disagreed. Though he'd have liked nothing more than to end the night coiled around her beneath the covers, she … hadn't come around so easily, though she _had_ at least agreed to wear the necklace. If a scolding night in the cold was the price for buying a few more... years, days, hours - whatever he'd earned, he would cherish it, which was why he had so easily let her retreat to Jean's arms for the night.

As for himself, Ives let his restlessness guide his feet. Habit took him to the quarters he shared with his brother, but the other's absence only reminded him more sharply of why Jean would not return before sunrise. With a sigh, he glanced out the window of the Keep, and saw in the distance the lights of the Garden district, where even at this late hour many parties yet persisted.

Mind made up, Ives glanced into the mirror atop his bureau and released his hair from its queue, a habit from years past when he had attended such parties regularly. Once his appearance suited his purpose, he squared his shoulders and strode from the room, setting a smile on his face which would accent his dimples quite charmingly.

Perhaps it was indeed time to let the Bard come out and play.


	7. Dance With A Shadow

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Seven: Dance With A Shadow  
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His feet moved him along a restless path after he left the Keep as he pondered where to go. Ives needed to wander a while, delving into memories of his past as he began to awaken his inner Bard. There had been a hundred times where he would have preferred a party to the thought of stability and a warm bed - lust instead of love, and the rush of romance instead of the steadiness of devotion. It was strange how foreign the notion felt now, adoring Artana as he did, to attend such a party. Maybe that was why he'd decided to try and find one, to see if he could enjoy it without the intent of stealing away a night with a pretty little book of which he'd never get to know more than the cover.

The Garden district always had a party, the sound of music and the aroma of wine seeming to hover over it on a crisp fall night such as this. After a long, meandering walk over canals and through the warm, flickering glow of street lamps, Ives paused a moment, trying to decide which party should be graced with his presence. On a whim, he picked a passerby - a tall man with blond hair and a cockade of bright feathers on his hat - and followed him until he led them both to an open gate with lights and flowers and laughter.

Ives began to mingle, taking in the sights and sounds as he moved through the crowd. He quickly found a number of former acquaintances and was pulled into several conversations - and had to demur as many polite refusals to the offers for _more_ - before ending up under a tree of lavender-colored flowers where some people had gathered around a game of dice that had, apparently, reached high stakes. Not in money, no, but in other things: truths, lies, dares, and taunts. A common enough pastime for Orlesian nobles who had outgrown their teens but had not yet acquired the responsibility of their own houses or Court titles yet. He recognized many of them - had, in fact, read the covers of their pretty little books, as it were - and appreciated an opportunity to gather information that would be useful to the Durantes later, whether old Bernard agreed or not.

One he did not know had just relinquished the dice to a rather pretty lady with hair tinted pink in the new style of the youngest members of Celene's Court of Ladies. The man, tall and lean with hair dark as Ives' own, laughed at the comment the woman said as she took his place, and ran a practiced finger down what was exposed of her back before stepping away, a motion which placed him close to Ives. With a chuckle, the man observed, "Ah, I did not expect to see you in a place such as this, ser." He signaled a passing waiter. "You have not been in such a gathering for many years, I understand."

The blood chilled in Ives' veins as that familiar lilt reached his ears, but it wouldn't do to let the man win such an admittedly minor round of the Game between them. "I don't know if I'd say _many_ years," Ives returned, eyes remaining one place whilst ears focused on another, taking in as many angles as he possibly could without jumbling the information he gleaned from any of them. Only once he'd finished reading the lip motions of a whispering noble (when would they learn that when they whisper, they more clearly enunciate the words, and thus more carefully move their lips?) did he give his company a proper glance, half-hoping his ears had mistaken the identification. "And yet I'm afraid that even in those indulgences I've had here and again, I've never been properly introduced to you before. Strange, I never forget a face."

"Oh, we've met in passing," the man said as he took a glass of wine from the tray presented to him. The light behind him outlined the contour of his face, throwing the details of his features into shadow, but the profile and single visible eye of midnight blue were more than enough to confirm the identity. _Martin_. "It is true that we are not well-acquainted. You mostly worked with the Empress when officially part of the Court, no? I had other patrons." He winked that deep blue eye at a woman who happened to be passing by, eliciting a blown kiss and giggle from her. "Different circles." He looked away from Ives, towards the building that housed the guests of the party who had separated into couples and sought both a private place and something softer than the ground. "Though if rumor is true, we share something else in common besides music." He sipped his wine and leaned back, deeper into the shadows, which obscured his face even further.

Everything about this man was dangerous, and Martin obviously knew more than what he simply put to words. The profile, the mannerisms... A memory of the tingling that had been induced in his arm with a mere touch drove Ives to caution as he engaged the man in the Game. "Oh? Hmm… A penchant for fragrances? Appreciation of art? A fondness for a full moon hanging romantically in the sky? Perhaps it can be a part of this formal introduction we've yet to have."

"We both have a particular woman on our minds tonight, I think." The woman to whom he'd given the dice suddenly laughed and clapped her hands as she won a toss. The man smiled. "And neither of us can be with her. It is difficult to _share_ such beauty, no?" The words were spoken quietly, on the cusp of hearing, and still Martin would not face Ives directly. "Even more difficult to protect them, at times. Strong, beautiful, and stubborn. It is a challenge to aid them when they think they can best protect themselves."

Ives' lip twitched ever so slightly, his smile a little difficult to maintain in the face of such an inappropriate and uncomfortable mention of Artana. Recovery was swift nonetheless, and he chuckled softly. "Ah, well, I think these days she is the one who protects me. I never was so intimidating, you know. Ah, lala, you wouldn't know it! I forgot, you see? We're such fast friends it slips my mind we haven't met."

"Your woman, she protects many, it is true. You, ser, seem to have followed a different path than protection." Martin took a sip from the glass again, and the woman who he'd given the dice to came up and demanded his attention, whispering into his ear and then looking at him with an expectant smile. He chuckled and handed her his wine. "I will be with you shortly, _Baronne_." He nodded towards a more secluded area of the yard where a seat for two sat drenched in moonlight, yet another example of how often the Game of Politics and the Game of _Amour_ intertwined. "Wait for me there, _ma chére_."

She took his earlobe between her teeth before relinquishing him, then took a sip of his wine and flounced away, arranging herself on the love seat without taking her eyes off of him.

"Forgive the interruption, ser, but our conversation is almost done. It is, after all, mere chance that we encountered each other here." The peculiar emphasis on the word _here_ was plain only to one trained as a bard. "However, I feel compelled to give you the same advice that I gave you upon our last meeting: protect her. And I do not speak of your amber-eyed beauty." For the first time he looked directly at Ives, and the lantern light caught on two mismatched eyes, one of midnight blue and the other of forest green. "Though to protect the one is to protect the other, I assure you. Should my angel fall, you and yours will soon follow. _All_ of yours, to compensate for the loss of _all_ of mine." He grinned and pushed forward. "Well, the message I had for the _Baronne_'s husband is delivered, so my business here is done. Pray to your Maker that we do not meet again, ser. Perhaps he will even answer such a prayer, no?"

With those words, he turned from Ives and walked away - and also away from the baroness, heading towards the house itself. Ives couldn't help it - he glanced towards the flower-draped, wrought-backed _banc d'amour _and the similarly decorated woman with the pink hair, and felt a chill in his blood.

Though in much the same position she'd been in when she'd first sat down, her head had tilted back, leaving her eyes to stare up at the moon. He didn't need to get closer to recognize the glazed look in her eyes or confirm that her chest no longer rose and fell. The glass had dropped to the ground from her lifeless fingers, the last bit of wine soaking into the soil beneath the grass.

When Ives quickly turned his head to seek her killer, he found nothing - as if the man had vanished into the shadows.

.~^~.

"Ah, home, sweet home," Ives said, suppressing a wince. The sun did dance a little too brightly in his eyes considering how ungodly an hour this was after going out to play so late last night, but that wasn't the main contributing factor to the dull ache pulsing in his head. _Such a beautiful home,_ he thought, a sad note belying the shattered sense of nostalgia. _Yet it is no longer mine._

It was the _only_ proper home in the Arts district, which in itself was the only district in Val Royeaux with wealth enough to rival the Garden district near the Palace. The entire property was fenced and gated, the sprawling estate's grand wall and green grounds almost out of place in an otherwise condensed living area of tightly packed buildings with apartments above their respective shops and cafés. This home clearly predated the rest, and neither the beautifully polished white limestone estate nor its smaller auxiliary home of brown brick at the back showed signs of giving in to the city around them. It may well have been called a Palace if it were just a few stories taller, and there were few homes in the city that could rival its size. Court nobility who could hold their tongue enough to gild their jealousy regarded it as one of the most beautiful homes in all the city.

The Estate and the Durantes themselves represented a moment captured in time; an Orlais that not only defined chivalric ideals but also abided by them. Just as the estate nestled in the middle of the district that resonated with all in Val Royeaux, so too the Durantes were held in quiet esteem by the people of the city.

_As long as they never have to meet old Bernard, at least... _Sadly, Ives knew that was a thought best shared only between brothers, given the nature of their father.

"I'm glad to be here, personally. Thank you for coming with us, Isabeau," Jean said as they passed through the great iron gates that opened onto the gravel path. They paused to take in the smooth lines and graceful curves of the buildings where the twins had been raised. Them, and many, many before them - a history that stretched all the way to the man who had built these magnificent structures, the first man to bear the name _Durante. _ "Would you like to meet my children?"

"I may have already promised her such an introduction, but I'm not so sure it's a good idea, Jean. We've a shadow today, I can feel it," Ives cautioned, even as he shared a glance with Isabeau confirming it to be a mutual sensation.

"I'm not leaving without seeing them." Jean insisted. "Let our shadow come, I would love to greet him." Ives' eyes shifted swiftly to see if his brother had made a gesture to fit those words. It was a sad day indeed when such a kindhearted man instinctively rested his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. "I have quite the reception planned."

As his eyes jumped back to Isabeau, he saw the end of a wince across her face. She'd removed it quickly enough, but he bet that she felt the same: how must Martin have hurt the gentle man to goad such a reaction out of him? They both knew that Jean was capable of killing, naturally - after all, he _was_ a warrior. Yet... it was generally uncharacteristic of him to act in such a way, enough that an empathetic creature such as Isabeau would most certainly know it took a special kind of barb for such a backlash. "It would be better for everyone, I think, if the shadow remained just that," she said quietly.

When they entered the estates they were greeted by smiling servants and forced to put on cheerful faces which did not reflect the sober mood within. The walls were decorated with rather chaste art that Ives had clearly not chosen himself, the frescoes on the ceiling likewise of a largely religious theme. There was gilding at almost every opportunity given the family's trade in the silver and gold mines of Orlais, yet it never passed into excess. Artisans had crafted this house with love and devotion, which was no surprise - the Durantes were notorious for paying well for true beauty, and for finding it in men and women who would work for barter.

Ives paused to admire a table whose base was an ornately carved tree trunk. As Jean inquired as to the whereabouts of the children, the bard smiled and recalled the beautiful story of the elven carpenter man who had worked for the Durantes while Ives himself was a child. That table, two of the benches outside, and repairs to the grand mantelpiece were all the cost of two true, pure golden rings of finer design than the elf could have managed under any other employer in Val Royeaux - even, perhaps, in all of Orlais. From what Ives understood, the elf and his wife had kept them hidden for fear they'd be stolen. The wife had stayed on for three years at the house as a servant before they took their savings and moved away.

_Hopefully to a place where they might be able to proudly wear those fine symbols for the rest of their days without fear of bandits... or nobles._

"I was not informed of a visit from you today, boy," a smooth voice said from the stairs at the far end of the room.

_I'd say speak of the demon, _Ives thought, the smile from the warm memories twitching only slightly before he set it back in place, _but it would be an insult to demons everywhere. _"Ah, _Bernard_, lala, we've an invitation from the young Mademoiselle Jennine. A _standing_ invitation." Oh, how his experiences over the years had taught him the ways to inflame the man he had once called _Father_. Any mannerism not strictly upstanding and _noble_, including flippant phrases like Ives' trademark_ lala,_ always inspired a twitch on Bernard's face. Fanning his ire by blatantly ignoring the man's highly esteemed title of Marquis was disrespectful enough without also reminding him that _any_ 'subordinate' - in this case, his granddaughter Jennine - had any ability to circumvent his authority.

Ives was certain he would have been disowned years before he was formally struck from the papers of inheritance had it not been for his brilliance as a Court Bard. The twins' choice to join the Grey Wardens over Bernard's objections had been the final straw to estrange them. Still, Bernard knew he would become a villain in the eyes of the children, who adored their father, if he put his foot down and countermanded that standing invitation, and so it stood intact. Clearly he didn't need to be _loved_ by his 'subordinates,' but he did need them to respect his authority, or he'd wind up bequeathing the title to a distant cousin - and lose the estates and title to a _lesser_ branch of the Durantes.

And Ives knewBernard would _never_ stand for that.

Predictably, Bernard began to puff up in indignation, though any objections he might have had halted when Isabeau cleared her throat delicately. In an instant he transformed from unpleasant curmudgeon to a man who understood the value of good manners. "Ah, forgive my rudeness, Madame, for I did not see you there." He strode into the room fully, ignoring Ives on his way to Isabeau to bow in a proper, if not overly enthusiastic, fashion. "Marquis Bernard Durante, at your service, Madame. If I could have the pleasure of your name?"

Isabeau inclined her head and presented her hand to Bernard in a gesture which would not have been out of place in Court. Her carriage cultivated the impression of a particular _type_ of Orlesian nobility, complete with the carefully disinterested look Players of a certain skill in the Game cultivated to indicate a willingness to be engaged. "Comtess Isabeau de Brienne, Marquis Durante. It is an honor to make your acquaintance."

_Comtess..._ Well, that answered a lot. He'd had his suspicions, and had gathered as much information as he'd been able to in his relatively short time with Isabeau, but he was impressed: to be a Comtess, and regarded as such, was notable enough, but to be a Warden as well? That in itself was enough to tell him she was better at the Game than she let on. Traditionally, Wardens were not supposed to have any political ties or influences whatsoever - among other reasons, the Order's neutrality was crucial to the tolerance of known blood mages and criminals within their ranks. Such unsavory individuals were half of the reason they even had recruits in times of peace. It might not have been glamorous, but an empty Keep wouldn't hold a darkspawn swarm at bay.

As the Game dictated, Bernard took Isabeau's hand and fluttered a kiss in the air above it before letting it go. "The day is brightened by your presence." Though they were words Ives might have uttered with a salacious grin, Bernard's delivery was pure rote and dictated by the Game, though a light of curiosity did come to his eyes as he straightened from his bow and released her hand.

"I am here to make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Jennine, Marquis Durante. I apologize for the lack of notice, but once I heard of the charming young lady and her brother, I wished to meet them myself." She issued a charming smile at Bernard. "I understand that the interruption of your day is quite unforgivable. Would you accept a gift from my estates to make up for the inconvenience? A bottle of Montfort Red liqueur, perhaps?"

"There is no imposition," Jean dismissed, taking a step forward. He was no friend of Bernard's, and certainly did not consider himself a son of the man. Ives knew what he was thinking: Why waste such a fine gift on such a wretch of a man? The superiority of Montfort Red was legend enough without their personal knowledge of the liqueur, and it graced only the finest of wine cellars across Orlais – including, apparently, that of _Comtess _Isabeau. After all, in their youth they had vacationed every winter at the Montfort estate associated with the lineage of the very first Marquis, Henri Durante. Granted, the fetching blond fellow whose portrait hung above the grand mantel had not been so grand himself in his early years, not enough to even have a surname. A man of legend, Henri de Montfort's legacy was not well reflected by the man who currently held the title, a fact which had grated the twins since their mother had been ousted from the main estate in favor of Bernard's mistress. Though they'd mourned their mother, neither had mourned the passing of her usurper.

Ignoring the son of his body entirely, Bernard smiled at Isabeau. "That is overly generous, Mademoiselle. I need no apology from such a fine lady as yourself. However, I worry at the timing of your visit. At this moment, the children are with their Dancing Master to learn this season's menuet." He hesitated, though he pointedly did _not_ look at Jean or Ives. "As you are here already, I will not turn you away, but please forgive our inability to greet you as your station merits. Perhaps once you are finished with meeting Jennine, you could join me for a drink?"

Before either brother could react to such an offer, Isabeau smiled and demurred politely with a shake of her head. "Alas, my duties do take much of my time. I appreciate the invitation, however, and insist upon sending along the liqueur. I would wish no ill will between us or our Houses."

Bernard's smile broadened before retreating behind a polite mask once more, a look of smug satisfaction with which Ives was all too familiar. "If you insist, I will not stand in your way." His bow was a trifle deeper than tradition dictated this time around, and Isabeau's curtsey was studiously correct in response. "I must attend to my own duties, then. I bid you good day, Comtess." As they both rose, he inclined his head to her one final time and swept from the room - again ignoring the two men who shared his blue eyes and the stamp of the Durante features, but little else.

"Ah, lala, but I hope his heart decides it's had its fill of his ... _hem_, fine, upstanding generosity," Ives said with the most restraint one could fit into a single sentence. "Soon, with any luck."

"Ives," Jean scolded, an admonition which forced Ives to admit that his twin possessed a kinder heart than he could claim, almost to a fault. His brother seemed incapable of true hatred, even when two men in his life were trying their hardest to provoke such a reaction from the gentle man.

"You're right. We should go to the ballroom and see who this esteemed instructor is that is so well trusted to teach our precious almost-adults something as extraordinarily important as a rendition of the menuet. I'm sure you dance it yourself, hmm, Your Ladyship?" With a twinkle in his eyes, Ives held his hand to her and took the first step towards the ballroom.

"Better than you do, lout," she answered with aplomb, though she took his hand with grace. "From what I have seen, I would expect your brother to be the better partner in a dance, personally. You seem a bit too concerned with your own skills to enhance those of another." Her mouth twitched, however, and she looked back at Jean with a smile. "You said Jennine was close to her first Court presentation. The granddaughter of a Marquis needs to be absolutely flawless in her first Court dance. Hopefully she takes after you in regards to attention to detail."

"I would hope more so," Jean said, a dose of red in his cheeks that simply begged for explanation.

Well, at the least, it begged for teasing. "He wasn't quite so successful in his ballroom debut. Thankfully, he more than made up for it in his sportsman's duel. I trust Jennine will be more than capable of far outperforming him in both. Of course, I'm more concerned with my own skills..." There was a smirk on his face that could be heard in his words, and the sound of soft music from an enchanted, windless music box had finally started tickling at their ears. They had trained to its tune for years, and with good reason - it was an antique from an era where enchanted objects were a truly exorbitant rarity.

Isabeau released Ives' hand and spun into a graceful turn that made her dress flare beautifully, ending the turn next to Jean so she could put her hand lightly on his arm. "I was tutored in the art of dancing before ever I touched a weapon, so I have an unfair advantage. I assure you, there is no shame in receiving tutelage from a Dancing Master before the first presentation to the Court, particularly for one with Jennine's social status. The first impression with the Empress is, so I have heard, the most important. Please don't let that lout tease her about being instructed in such a situation. I'm not sure I trust his ability to refrain." The sound of the music grew steadily louder as they moved down the hallway. "I'm sure Jennine will be a credit to you and her mother."

Whether or not she intended to say more, her words were circumvented as the music came to an end and a voice echoed in the hallway, a voice whose lilt and timbre was instantly identifiable and made all of them stiffen in recognition.

"Ah, your steps are light as a feather, Mademoiselle Jennine, but your _plié_ requires a bit more depth for when you are presented to the Empress and the Court. Observe."

Ives was not alone as he quickened his steps to the entrance of the ballroom. The doors had been left open to allow the air wafting in from the gardens through the open patio doors opposite to cool the occupants of the room as they danced, which allowed them to enter the room without worrying about a pause to open the door.

They still came to halt at the entrance, Ives reaching back to stop Jean out of instinct so as not to alarm the children overly much. Bernard, in particular, was quite sensitive to anxiety in his father and older siblings. His entry into the world had been abrupt and early, a circumstance which seemed to have lingering effects on his development. He had grown up more cautious and with less exuberance than his brother and sister. He was the first one they saw, twirling in place with his hands held out and eyes closed, grinning happily even though the music had died.

Their eyes were next drawn to where Jennine had lowered herself into a deep curtsey across from the equally deep bow of her brother Jules, while around them circled a man who moved with a sinuous grace that could have been acquired through long years of dancing - or from other, more sinister habits. As the three in the doorway watched, Martin drew to a halt and clapped his hands together. "Excellent. That was a far superior effort. You've made excellent progress during our lessons."

Ives squeezed Jean's arm again to hold him still, stepping forward to take the front position of the three. Isabeau had time and time again evidenced needing protection from this murderous monster, and Jean ... Well, Ives needed to protect his brother, too - if not for the children, he would probably already have tried to attack and, most likely, wound up being in over his head.

Bernard had stopped spinning by this point and came to a halt, weaving slightly in place as the room apparently didn't stop with him. He pointed at the music box and said, "Again!"

Martin laughed and swept him off his feet before any of the other adults could react. "But of course! Only the best for the Durante children, no?"

"But I want this dance!" Ives protested colourfully, stepping forward into the ballroom. "Bernard, my handsome fellow, you've grown! And who is your friend, hm?" It was up to him to command the tone in the room, to keep the children and Isabeau from panicking and Jean from attacking. No doubt Jennine and Jules had already seen Jean's tension when they first turned at the cue of Ives' voice. Hopefully he'd replaced the taut jaw and clenched fist, but with the impressionable, slightly... touched Bernard in the arms of a murderous rogue such as Martin, he had to focus on righting that wrong first.

"Mai- Mait- Martin!" Bernard said brightly, and Martin chuckled.

Settling the boy against his torso, Martin walked to the music box - and away from Ives. "Am I to presume, young master, that one of these men is your noble father?" He leaned down so that Bernard could reach the music box, and the boy lowered and raised the lid so that he could restart the song.

"Papa! Uncle Ives!" Jennine began to rush to Jean, but the pointed sound of a cleared throat from behind slowed her steps.

"Grace and dignity, Mademoiselle, in all things," Martin said with a trace of admonition in his voice as the strain of music began to fill the room again. The lighting in the room shifted with the movement of the curtains around the doors leading outside, and for a moment, only his blue eye was visible. "Recall what I said about your deportment in the Court."

Taking a breath, Jennine nodded and then settled into a graceful _plié_, much like the one she had been in when they entered the room. "Noble Father," she said in an even tone. "I am most pleased to see you."

Ives persisted towards Bernard, wanting the boy as far away from Martin as possible. At least Jean had the benefit of a natural smile when his children were approaching him with excitement and in good health.

"In the Empress' Court, in the position you hope for, I think you will find that a ... a lack of personality and excitement within reason will not excite the Empress, either." Jean was all too happy to uproot the man's teachings in a fell swoop, Ives could tell in the reduced tension of his posture as he gladly leaned the slight bit to give his blossoming young woman a hug. "You want to be a member of her personal guard... nothing less."

Ives looked away so that he wouldn't smirk or snicker when he saw Jean turn a hidden glare on Martin. It was admirable how he was containing himself, but there was still a priority to address. "Give us a hug, and then let us have that dance."

Martin whirled in place with perfect balance and presented the giggling boy to Ives. "Ah, but of course you may dance with the young lord. I am but the Dancing Master, not his clearly beloved uncle, after all."

As Ives reached out to take Bernard from the man, he locked gazes with Martin. It was a shock to meet those eyes squarely for the first time with no shadows between them. In that instant, Ives realized Martin had discarded a veil constantly held in place, and he saw a man so focused, so obsessed, that he would only allow interference when it suited him. Something slumbered deep within, and if it were roused...

Luckily for little Bernard, the beast remained asleep for the nonce. Ives quickly pulled the small boy into his arms, fighting the intense chill that ran down his spine as he averted his gaze from the mismatched eyes with an effort. His smile again in place, he returned to the others, moving with the beat of the music. "There we are!" He began to dance to the music with the little boy, partially to keep the boy happy, but mostly to get away from Martin. "Ah, lala, such a pity we must cut this lesson short, but we were already running late! This discussion can at least wait until a nice civilized meal, no? Jules, Jennine, why don't you go check with Housekeeper Nana about lunch? It should be ready now, and they're just awaiting the word to set the table."

"I'll go!" Jennine said. "It will be fun to have lunch with you, Papa." Before pulling away from him, she leaned forward and the tiniest bit upwards and kissed her father's cheek, the height she had inherited from her father more very much in evidence even though she had not yet reached her fourteenth birthday. As she sailed gracefully from the room, she offered a charming smile and tip of her head to Isabeau.

"Can Maitre Martin join us, Papa?" Jules ventured, still trying to figure out why his father was so withdrawn.

"Oh, Monsieur Jules, I am most flattered for the invitation, but that would hardly be _proper_." It was an odd twist of Jean's earlier comment, a little sting with little power, but his next act carried more than a little weight as he quickly moved across the floor and seized Isabeau's hand, bowing to her in the proper fashion. "Still, it is my duty to instruct the proper behavior. A pity the Mademoiselle has departed, but surely Monsieur Jules would appreciate a final demonstration before we end the lesson entirely?"

Jules appeared confused as he looked back and forth between the 'Dancing Master' and his father, and Martin took advantage of the lack of refusal to rise and sweep Isabeau into a position that was _just_ this side of proper. The stance, however, did not match that of the rather tame menuet which Martin had likely been instructing them, but rather the dance reserved only for adults. "Then observe, Monsieur Jules, the dance which is the pinnacle of all Court dances: the waltz."

They began to move to the music, both partners reflecting an ease and grace with the motions which spoke of the mastery of years of training. Their shoes softly scuffed the wooden floor in time with the faint strains of the music were the only sounds in the room beyond the box, and their eyes never strayed from the other's, save when the dance dictated Martin twirl Isabeau in a graceful arc.

Jules watched, fascinated, and Ives knew why. Etiquette dictated that 'Maitre Martin' would have been restrained from teaching the far more intimate waltz to Jules or his sister until they were older. It was a dance restricted to those who were of marriageable age, and even by the standards of the Orlesian Court, none of Jean's children were quite old enough. The two boys saw only what Martin intended them to see: a masterful example of one of the most beautiful dances in Orlais, a dance perfectly within Maitre Martin's duties to perform despite his rather presumptuous choice of a partner.

Ives, of course, saw far more than that. He had noticed Isabeau's balled up fist when Martin approached her, and the darting glance she'd sent the children as she'd allowed her hand to be taken. A master of the waltz himself, he recognized the stiffness in her shoulders and the way her neck was locked with tension. Though her feet moved easily through the dance, her face was carefully blank, a mask as thorough as those worn to many of the Balls at the Court. To any but a Bard, Isabeau appeared to be enjoying the interlude, but those cues alerted him to her profound unhappiness. More subtle still, however, was the odd acquiescence he saw in Isabeau as she looked up into Martin's eyes. She wasn't happy, but Ives also suspected that, given the chance, she would not struggle against her captor. And _that_, he did _not_ understand.

It would have been impossible for him to transfer Bernard to Jules more quickly, but it still didn't feel like it had been quickly enough. "Hup, here we are! Jules, my handsome, manly nephew, can you tout this very grown little brother of yours downstairs for lunch? I'm sure you'll see many a waltz in your day. No need to dally on this little show for attention." He winked, patting Jules' shoulder to usher him along. It didn't aid the boy's confusion, but Ives knew Jules was clever enough that he shouldn't be - and wasn't - surprised at the occasional odd behaviour from his Bardic Uncle Ives.

WIth only a nod to acknowledge his uncle's request, Jules turned and moved to the exit, but their escape was hindered when Bernard suddenly burst out, "Papa! Hug!" and began to squirm energetically against his brother's grip. "Let me down! Papa!"

Ives watched Jean tear his eyes away from Martin and hurry to his sons, forcing a smile on his face for the sake of Bernard. He was holding his arms out to his youngest, no doubt aware that if he ignored the request, he'd do far more damage than even his usual absence could ever cause. Embracing Bernard in firm hug, he began to talk animatedly even while still moving towards the door in a quickstep. "You are as fine a dancer as I have seen," he told his youngest, encouraging the boy's giggling with a bit of judicious tickling.

Ives figured there was no doubt that he would need to explain Jean's tense, controlled posture and distracted appeasement of Bernard to the observant young Jules, but at the moment, there were more important matters at hand. He began to move towards the dancing couple, trying to look relaxed for Bernard's sake still even as he closed the distance between himself and his quarry.

Even as Jean ensured that the supposed students left the room with decorous speed, Martin continued to waltz with Isabeau as if he had not a care in the world, each arc and sweep taking them closer to the door facing the gardens. Just before the door shut behind Jules the couple vanished through the curtains fluttering in the wind – and Ives broke into a run after them.

He emerged onto the raised patio which overlooked the gardens and found Martin indulging in a rather thorough kiss with an Isabeau whose struggles appeared weaker than Ives would have expected. Even as Ives watched, the man slipped something into the bodice of her dress, then let his hand linger to explore it for the bare instant left to him before Ives interrupted. The intrusion on Isabeau was insulting, and though the bard was sure she'd had her fill of strange men touching her, with Martin so close there wasn't any other way to break in between them save to wedge between the two, his back brushing along Isabeau while his front suffered the same with Martin. No matter the slither up his spine, he kept his posture smooth.

"Ah, ah, ah, this is a chaste ballroom. We have a room upstairs for debauchery, I can promise you that. It's by invitation only, though, my friend." His hand slipped to his side, closing around the hilt of his dagger. "I suggest you abide by house rules and wait for that invitation to come before making any daring assumptions, hm?"

Isabeau's presence fell away, but Martin did not back down, despite the fact that only inches separated them, and thus Ives kept his attention focused ahead. Those odd mismatched eyes met his and narrowed, the beast in their depths which had before been quiescent while relinquishing Bernard now fully awake and enraged after being separated from his chosen prey. Martin reached out and wrapped his hand around Ives' own, shoving the half-drawn dagger back into the sheath with a surprisingly forceful grip. "And _I_ suggest you do not involve yourself in something which does not concern _you._"

The bard found himself shoved violently aside just as Jean emerged from the ballroom, face red with anger, and charged Martin, not even bothering to draw his sword as he swung at the man, letting his fury and momentum carry him forward. Oblivious to anyone but his target, Jean roared, _"Foul, cowardly heathen, stand here and pay reparation!"_ When he reached Martin, he punched with all his might, aiming for the man's face.

With a merry laugh - as if a moment earlier he had not been in a rage to equal the warrior's own - Martin halted the larger man's blow with his hand, diverting it with surprising strength. "Ah, my dear friend Jean. You have such charming children, no?" Abuptly he lashed out and hooked Jean's right knee with his ankle, causing him to stagger. As Ives finally regained his balance and took a step towards the struggle, Martin changed tactics and disengaged from the enraged Jean with a swift backstep. Leaping without looking onto the railing of the raised patio, he balanced perfectly for a moment, looking at the still-stunned Isabeau. "Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow, my angel."

And then he fell back, dropping straight down from the height to land on the ground almost soundlessly. Jean righted himself and ran to the railing an instant too late, infuriated to see his chance slip away. "I will find you! I swear it!" His voice was practically a roar as he leaned over the balcony, a warrior's resonance very much different than a bard's.

"I look forward to it, my friend!" Martin gave a final mock salute to the heavily panting man above him and then slipped away, ducking into the underbrush that dotted the estates and quickly disappearing from sight.

Ives reached his brother's side, hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his now useless dagger, and shifted restlessly on his feet as he debated pursuit before discarding the idea. A sideways glance showed Jean in the midst of a glorious umbrage the likes of which he had not seen in years, and he hesitated to engage his twin while the warrior was still in its grasp. After all, a glance to his reddened fist on the stone railing seemed to indicate that punch he'd been cheated from throwing was still itching beneath the surface.

With a frustrated shake of his head, he turned to Isabeau. When he reached her side he put an arm around her shoulders. "Are you all right, _ma chérie?"_

Maker knew _he_ wasn't - seeing Martin around the children had shaken him, particularly since the invasion into their lives had been accomplished with such ease. The encounter itself had also left an impression on Ives. The more he thought on it, the more he realized that he had drawn a line in the conflict, giving Martin a point to press against until he found the amount required to break it. By coming between Martin and his prey, by offering the threat of his own weapon while doing so, the Game had been shifted beyond its original parameters, even if Ives had not actually engaged the man in combat. Would Ives have used his dagger only for intimidation, or would he have gone through with the kill if given the opportunity, despite his own personal preference to leave his opponents alive? Would he-

Abruptly hands pushed him away, and he glanced at Isabeau, startled by her sudden rejection of him. Her eyes were wide and staring, and he realized that she still wasn't seeing Ives Durante standing next to her. Putting a gentle smile on his face, he spread his arms slowly. "_Chérie,_ I don't bite quite that hard. At least not in the wrong places... Ah, lala. It is only me, the same silly lout I have been since the day we met."

A shudder wracked her body, but the words, the manner, the tone: they accomplished the task. Her breathing slowed as her eyes focused on him, and he broadened his smile when the spark of true recognition returned. "Ives! I- I'm sorry." She bit her lip, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears as she looked at Jean, the guilt plain on her face.

It was an unfortunate moment to shift her focus. "Can you not restrain yourself for even a moment?" Jean scolded, and Ives knew full well he was catching a projection of the warrior's feeling of helplessness. He couldn't blame the man, either.

"True, true. I apologize, Isabeau. I'll refrain from such brazen inappropriateness... there are children about, and that does require a more restrained personality. But I wonder if I should stay..." There were reasons far more than he would give, but it was best that he slip away while Isabeau was still unaware he'd drawn the little box from her bodice, or before she might realize he was starting to hatch a plan. "The children are never on their best behavior with me around. Perhaps with the knowledge you have forgiven me, I could be on my way to tend to a few errands?"

That seemed to help her regain a bit of strength, and she smiled at him. Stepping closer so she could speak in a lower tone, she said, "I can never stay mad at you for long, lout. Before you go, though... do you think Jean would mind if- I mean, the children don't _know_ about Martin, even if they have their suspicions now. Do you think I should warn them? I'm sure he'll try again - he knows how vulnerable children are once they have placed their trust - and no guards can keep him out." She shivered as her hand went to her neck. "He can be... very charming when he needs to be, and very good at allaying concerns once he has found a way in. It is the least I can do for poor Jean." The guilt had returned, and she glanced at Jean once more.

"Oh, _chérie_, how you always know precisely what to say," Ives said cheerfully, the duplicity to his words subtle even for a Court Bard. She had no reason to suspect him of saying such a thing because she had put even more worry in his mind, and he preferred it that way. The implication that Martin would not leave the matter well enough alone now that his position had been exposed, that he would try to get to the children _again... _Masking a shudder, Ives smiled at her. The less she knew of his ... intended personal involvement with Martin, the happier she might stand to be in life. "Yes, I think you might. The older children do know a good bit about the Game, yet so does old Bernard - and Martin was still able to be appointed Dancing Master. Forewarned is forearmed, however, and both of the older children would be better able to withstand future attempts of manipulation if you spoke with them. Tools that might serve you well, _oui_?"

She nodded, once more considering Jean. "Will he be all right?"

Ives glanced to Jean as well. They shared a lingering moment wherein nothing was _said_, but enough had been conveyed that Jean moved back into the ballroom. It was a feat to keep the frown off of Ives' face. Would Jean be all right? That was a loaded question. He hadn't been _all right_ for four years, since the death of his wife and near loss of his son. Artana had become the closest thing in his life to _all right_, and Ives knew full well he himself had stolen half of that to a terse concession. The children were his only hope of _all right_ in the future, but to escape the life the other Bernard - the father neither of the twins ever referred to as such - had been molding for them, he'd had to give up all but the rarest of connections with them.

Jean Durante was, in fact, _not _all right. "I am positive of it, _mon floraison_." Turning a bright smile to his dear friend, he leaned forward to plant a delicate kiss on the tip-top of her forehead. "Watch him with the children. I'm sure you'll see it yourself."

Though apparently she didn't fully believe his declaration, she nodded and entered the ballroom, face determined. At least this way, they would be able to tend to the children while Ives tended to... other matters.

Martin's Game had long been in motion, but the next move would determine whether or not Ives could slip a few extra cards up his own sleeve to make sure the man would lose.

If nothing else, maybe he would ensure Martin wouldn't gain the ultimate victory.


	8. The Caged Lion

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Eight: The Caged Lion  
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After leaving the Durante estate, mind afire with the nature and consequence of their encounter with Martin there, Ives eventually found his way to a park overlooking the bustling central market in front of the Grand Cathedral. The light of the sun struck the looming white building, giving it a sheen which made it glow and glisten. The effect, combined with the ever-present ethereal melody of the Chant, added a special beauty to the city, one in which he normally would have allowed himself to delight. Yet his mind could not stop considering, weighing, and planning: Martin _had_ to be dealt with, and soon.

The trip was looming, though after the events at the Durante estate it seemed less an adventure and more a desperate move. Jean had already been in questionable spirits, knowing what the trip ultimately meant for Artana, and the threat to his children would only dampen his mood even further. As connected to Jean as he was, it bothered Ives to see him like this and know he would hurt even more. The smiling giant could ache so badly inside it burned, yet would still always offer a laugh, always have time for a pint, and always give of his time to any who asked it of him. After all, Jean and Ives were not the only ones who knew what awaited Artana: most of the Wardens had their was not uncommon for a Grey Warden to be accompanied to the Deep Roads by friends when the time came, even if they were alone at the end of all things.

Something else nagged at the bard, of course, and with Isabeau and Livilla accompanying them, it could not be dismissed any more than Artana's fate, and now also aligned with the danger posed to the children. Their shadow persisted in complicating matters, even before today's almost tragic events. Ives knew with certainty that their shadow would move along with them grew with every passing hour. It was difficult enough to play a Game here, on the public stage - in the middle of nowhere, the difficulty came in knowing when, if ever, you were safe. Ives was certain he'd hardly have an hour's sleep a night as he wondered what lurked, even leaving the Wardens, the Thieves' Guild, and all of his _other_ obligations behind.

Leaving things behind had once been his blessing. After this morning, he just couldn't be sure it held true anymore. Ives knew that Jean would find it difficult to sleep at night from the thought of Martin near his children, no matter the precautions which had been taken, and no matter the knowledge that Martin would follow them rather than stay in Val Royeaux to plague the children. The fear had been planted, and taken root quite successfully.

_Those eyes..._

Ives paused at a bench alongside a canal to sit and let the glow fade from the sky, wishing he could spend a moment to simply marvel at the red-orange glow beyond the colourful buildings in varied heights and designs that wove the tapestry of Val Royeaux. In all of Thedas, surely no city was so beautiful to behold. The music wafting so gently in the air, the pride and decorum in presentation, the surplus of a successful nation - yet beneath... In all of Thedas, surely no city could be so _ugly_ within. What a thing to mourn, this terrible Game!

In his years as a Court Bard, Ives had encountered what he had thought were all possible variations of the Game which ruled the nobility of Orlais. Poorly played, masterfully played, nonchalantly, any one word which could describe it, Ives had seen it. Yet with Martin... overall, his Game made no sense.

Perhaps it was to blame on the_ nouvelle_. These _new_ bards knew nothing of finesse and accomplishment. Never before had assassination and stealth been such a requirement to play the Game in Val Royeaux. Martin's gambit against Jean, the most pure-hearted bastard Ives had ever met in the often corrupt Val Royeaux, had proven overwhelmingly successful, yet had not truly harmed the children to which he so obviously had access. Surely _that_ would be a crushing blow, so why had he not swung? Likewise, his twisted obsession with Isabeau seemed to totter between gross adoration and intent to harm, his gifts showing concern while his actions seemed carefully placed to break her down.

It left Ives with the greatest of quandaries: What angle did he need to play to _win_ this Game? For all he had done in his years of playing with the most sophisticated of bards, somehow this seemed more complicated. It posed a thought so hard to believe that he chuckled to himself, startling a poor pauper going about his evening stroll.

He slouched deeply on the bench and let his head hang over its back, staring up at the dusky blue and the rich, royal purple, the brightest of the stars already jumping out, begging to be seen. Maybe Ives _didn't _understand the style of Martin, but it did not mean that Ives was helpless before the man - even if their styles differed so dramatically. Ives had built his bardic reputation using the more subtle weapons of acceptance and forgiveness, a path which, though more difficult, had brought about his greatest triumphs. His head rose slowly as he began to wonder, _could the same methods be used against Martin?_

_Could he be saved? _Mostly it was an odd epiphany he'd stumbled on like an errant brick in the pavement. Jarring and a touch infuriating, the odd interplay between Martin and Isabeau had made him wonder. Were the gifts _remorse_? Martin had, after all, given Isabeau truly thoughtful gifts, in his own twisted way: a promotion to Grey Warden, a sword fit for her as no other could be, a piece of jewelry from a beloved mother... In and of themselves, not gifts of which to be ashamed, but when combined with his almost erratic behavior...

He sighed deeply. No matter the answer, it was already decided. He was going to take action. The dice would be thrown to begin a _new_ Game, one of his _own_ choosing.

He straightened again in the bench and reached up to pull his hair out of its queue, fluffing it with his hands so that it hung free and full. He leaned over to tuck his leather breeches neatly into his flare-topped boots, then slid forward on the bench to get his back straight enough to tighten the upper laces of his already close-fitting pants. When that was done he stood, winced, and quickly reached down to ... _adjust_ matters, then pulled wide the laces over his chest. Fortunately he'd worn a fine vest thanks to their planned visit to the Durante estate. It left him suited to the nightlife of Val Royeaux, so he chose the playing field from a wide array.

When the Game finally began, Ives had found his way to a choice arena. It was the outer rings of a public soiree, and a glass of spiced wine rested elegantly in his hand. This was a place both public or private, depending on how the gambit proceeded - a stately party with music flowing alongside the wine, loose lips and secret meetings. He stood, mingled, laughed, and _waited_ - knowing the shadows still had their eyes on him somehow, somewhere.

As time ticked by, that invitation remained dangling, and Ives began to wonder if perhaps his opponent might decline to appear. Each time a man would approach his senses sharpened, and each time it proved to be a disappointment. What could he say, he was infamous: he should have expected to be sought out by those who wanted to meet Ives Durante, Court Bard extraordinaire before even reaching the age of twenty and rumored to be a former paramour to Celene herself - with the blessing of the Dowager Lady Mantillon, no less. It seemed the legend lived on, even if he hadn't attended to those functions (false as some may have been) since becoming a Grey Warden.

Sometimes the men hinted at a different kind of dance - as did most of the women who approached him that evening - and Ives politely declined. His eyes roved the crowd for only one man; a tall, athletic frame with mismatched eyes. It did help to pass the time, though, and became a little game in and of itself: to chuckle and send another hopeful on their way as they complained how Ives never attended these parties anymore, to give them little more consolation than a gentle kiss to their hand (adorned, almost without fail, with a wedding band,) and a wink to follow them back into the main crowd.

Long after the moon had set, when the party had reached - by Orlesian standards - its most frenzied peak, with the wine flowing most freely and the assignations changing the most frequently, a man wandered through playing a mandolin, delicate fingers trailing over the strings. He was older, judging from the lines around his eyes and mouth, with short, carefully trimmed brown hair shot with grey and a full mustache and spare goatee which matched. The hat on his head, topped with a cockade of lavender feathers, was tipped at a brash angle, the eyepatch completing the overall impression of a gad about town, a man who wanted to be considered daring but not dangerous. There was no specific element Ives could point to that explained why his senses suddenly went on full alert, save that the man was unknown to him, and thus suspect - as the man he had met at the party the night before had been.

Eventually the mandolinist ended up clustered with two women about fifteen feet from Ives, entertaining them with saucy innuendo and blithe promises for later rendezvous before finally coming to a stop by the empty chair next to Ives.

"Ah, women," he observed with a sigh in the thick accents of the Anderfels. He looked at the seated man with a twinkle in his single green eye, the other hidden behind the patch of black silk - a perfect way to disguise a mismatched pair of eyes. "What would life be like without them?"

"Only half of the world's beauty belongs to the fairer sex, friend." Again the internal alarms raised, though going strictly by appearance or voice, with only one single eye to his view, there were no similarities between Martin and this man. It was likely, of course, given the nature of the man's approach, but Ives thought it wasn't clear enough to consider it _definite_. Martin had never resorted to disguising his appearance before, after all - merely his nature. Perhaps pessimism had dug in its talons after such a long time of casting his line - and, of course, he would not put it past a former rival to take advantage of Ives' current situation to sink in some barbs of their own. "It has been a good while, but I swear that I know you. Such a large city can seem so small sometimes..."

The man threw back his head and laughed, causing heads to turn, smile, and ignore them. "Only half!" he said jovially. "Ah, now _you_ are an interesting man. May I?" he asked, gesturing to the empty chair. Without waiting for an answer, he eased down so that the eye without a covering was nearest Ives, his hand idly tuning the strings on his instrument. "Now, it is true that I haven't myself explored the options you seem to hold dear, but I am not averse to _sharing_, it is true." He looked at Ives, even as a chill went through the bard at the mention of _sharing_, the same word as from their encounter the night before. "And you? How good are you at sharing?" As if chuckling at a private joke, he continued, "Ah, likely not. I've concluded that Durante men are jealous of their own - even to the point of drawing a blade to defend their honor, no?"

The metre in Ives' head quickly weighed towards _definite_, any doubt now fully dismissed. Ives let him talk, a grin on his face as he sipped at his wine and offered small, breathy chortles against the rim once in awhile. Inside his head, his thoughts raced as he considered how to handle the man now that he was actually here. All the plans in the world, after all, were useless should the first step prove unsuccessful. _Ah, and now the battle will be well and truly joined._

His guest's fingers continued to caress the neck of his instrument. "Our friendship is an oddity, Ser Durante. Why, it seems like only a few hours since last we met, and yet we have never been formally introduced." He smiled hugely at Ives as he nodded at the passersby who looked at them in curious glances - curiosity being the common pastime of anyone at a party in Val Royeaux - and then immediately dismissed them to return to their own conversations. "So why the enticement, _mein freund_?"

A direct question. Well, it was time to talk. Ives turned his head to give Martin his undivided attention. It might have seemed like nothing at all to say he looked directly and _only_ at Martin, but this was an Orlesian party. Any self-respecting bard would _never_ look away from such a rich tapestry of information to solely focus on a single individual. In one little action, Ives was telling Martin he was the only thing that mattered in this entire party. "I imagine there are others you could be watching, _no_? Yet you've come for me. _To_ me... when I have called. Why dally on what you must know, _mon ami_? I myself have been enticed. You intrigue me. Perhaps it is a bit of the same for each of us? Neither has seen the other undressed, leaving a certain degree of mystery."

Naturally, Ives was not fool enough to think that Martin took the term 'undressed' at face value. He just didn't know _how _he would take it. This whole Game could unravel, the plan could give way - his heart was thrumming wildly, but he put all his effort into nonchalance.

Martin flashed a smile at him. "You sound so sure in that statement," he observed. "I thought I had disabused of the notion that your Keep is in any way a safe haven. Have I not proven I can move beyond its gates? Explore every nook and cranny within? People are so careless when they think they are safe, and the opportunities... Ah, the opportunities." His fingers smoothed over the mandolin, the melody he evoked one of love and betrayal both.

"Oh? I do wish you would expand on _this_. Tell me, have you seen anything you like?" Ives tittered, his tone holding a degree of playfulness deliberately set to attract the man's _sexual_ attention - even if the decision to do so made Ives uncomfortable. Never, in any of this man's faces that he'd yet seen, had he seen someone attractive. Yes, Martin's face was handsome from the one side, and his appearance well-maintained, but what lay within was so dark and gruesome, Ives couldn't possibly be attracted. Yet here he was, letting his eyes trail from head to toe, slowly - taking every inch, every tuck of fabric, every taut seam into memory - for the sake of a Game whose stakes were to high to allow failure.

"Did you not see my admiration at yonder Durante estates?" Martin asked with a raised eyebrow. "I know you saw the worship I bestowed upon my angel before you went for your blade." Still, the words didn't quite match the direction of Martin's roving eye as it began to move over Ives, though he turned his gaze away before it reached the level of intimacy that had been invited in return. "A reminder for her, as it were, that perhaps a certain bard and his oh-so-innocent twin were getting a bit too close, no?"

Their conversation had come to the first of many dangerous turns. Ives knew the hostile motion would be mentioned, and he also knew Martin wouldn't be easy to pry from Isabeau. This could be the first break in the foundation, and Ives had to do all he could to keep it from falling apart. "To be fair, you did task me with protecting her. You can surely understand the heat of the moment, the rush of concern for a friend? Had I understood the intimate nature of your intended conversation with your angel," despite what he actually thought of such a name for Isabeau from this man, the word was creditably forced from his mouth, "I might have preferred to join you with another blade entirely. Alas... Jean... he is cut from a different cloth than you and I. Few can understand a thrill the same as we can. I think you recognize this, _oui_? Leave this to those who wish to play. It is a rather addictive Game for those with the mettle."

The green eye turned to him again, though it rested only on his face for the moment. Still... it was progress, certainly better than the man looking away. "Ah, so so, but to which Game do you refer, I wonder?" His fingers, which had been resting on the neck of the mandolin, made a gesture familiar to any man who had ever needed to define services to a woman-for-hire when language was a barrier, and for the barest moment, his gaze dropped to ponder the corresponding part of Ives' body before lifting once more, a darting motion that spoke more of accident than design. "Men such as we know oh-so-many of these Games, and I am beginning to wonder to which of the many variations you refer, _mein freund. _And some are rather more addictive than others, no?"

_Interesting he persists with the disguise, from the speech of the Anderfels to the eyepatch still covering the eye of blue. Why maintain it so long, I wonder? _Ives let a low chuckle bubble in his chest as he slid a little deeper in his chair, offering Martin a better view through his posture. It wasn't particularly comfortable to slouch so much with his hands behind his back and still look directly at the man, so he turned his upper body to rest his elbow on the table to his side. "I think there's only one I still play these days. Becoming a Warden proved to be a bit of a reprieve, even if some of the side effects have proven a trifle gluttonous. We're not allowed anywhere near politics. A vacation in Orlesian terms, _no?_ Ah, lala, speaking of vacations, have you heard of that gold-skinned Qunari working down at the Scarlet Lotus?" Raising both eyebrows, Ives hoped this this would help solidify the direction of their conversation if he offered enough intrigue. Thankfully, the creature, seven feet in height if he was an inch, with horns and pure golden skin, truly was fascinating to Ives. "I hear that he sings in their stage show and everything. Can you imagine..?" Much as the treatment of the mandolin moments ago, there was no doubt the indication of length he made had little to do with the length of the horns on the Qunari's head.

"I do not have the luxury for such leisure." Again the fingers moved, this time to tighten around the neck of the mandolin for a moment before relaxing and pulling away entirely, instead rising to signal a passing waiter for a drink. His gaze left Ives only to take the glass of wine, and returned to the bard as he took his first sip.

The glass of blush was placed on the table between them, not too distant from where Ives had placed his elbow, and Martin's hand lingered around its stem. "Yet surely you cannot deny the beauty of the female form, _mein freund, _when it is properly displayed? The pale expanse of the space between a woman's breasts, the smoothness of exposed shoulders, silken hair left to fall about their frame... ah, surely you know of which I speak?" The tone chilled slightly with that hint of warning once more. "I do recall an occasion when you admired a bit too much, and too well."

Isabeau, Isabeau, _Isabeau_. Ives was applying pressure, but the shell simply wouldn't crack. He couldn't have expected it to be _easy,_ but now he worried again that it was impossible. Without affording this nervousness or hesitance time to breathe, Ives chuckled and rolled his eyes, sliding himself back up in his chair. "I think that anyone might be enraptured in such a case. Women, women... it's so... passé. Beauty to be admired, don't confuse me, but so seldom do we get the opportunity to discuss the rippling waves of a perfect abdomen, the sharp, leading crevasse from a straight hip towards a... well, I needn't extrapolate there." His hands, however, gestured once more, and again, direction was no part of it, save perhaps as a self-reference.

With a dreamy sigh, Ives shifted so he could reach with his right hand to the table between them, his fingertips gliding across the table and up the stem of the glass Martin had set there. "Such a closed world we live in where love is not fully explored. Bless the Chantry for allowing us that freedom." It was true he wasn't brave enough to sip from the man's glass now that he had been so near to it, but by simply touching it, he'd bridged a gap, inviting a secondary connection by grasping something Martin had held. "Ah, here again my mind wanders to that poor Qunari. I imagine to join a whorehouse, he must have felt terribly repressed. Poetic rebellion, to be sure, to do something so terribly against one's _apparent nature_." His blue eyes twinkled and he lifted Martin's drink towards him, offering the man a sip of his own wine, a mere _taste_ of the doting affection he could give.

The green eye narrowed, ever so slightly, a hint of crow's feet appearing as he contemplated the offering - and how to respond to it. After a moment, he chose to retrieve the glass with his own hand rather than sip from it while Ives held it, but there was a touch of flesh to flesh, a moment of contact that was matched by an increased intensity in his gaze, and then the glass was taken. The light from nearby lanterns played along some scars on the back of Martin's hand, and for a moment, he stared at them with a peculiar intensity. When it turned to Ives once more, the same focus Ives had seen for but a moment in the nursery this morning had returned.

Martin sipped his wine silently for a moment before musing, "It is true, that many act against their nature and outside their own wishes. Perhaps, in another conversation, the concept of freedom could also be explored, as you wish, when... other matters have been settled." His eye glittered, though what emotion dwelled therein, Ives could not claim to know. "But then, the past is a thing of such terrible beauty, is it not? To lose those you love, to lose your mind at the same time, and be taken from the only thing that ever was important to you? I wonder..." He paused, and Ives held his breath as the man shifted in his chair, but it was only to ease the mandolin into a more secure position. "Your pretty little elf, she of the delectable lips and keen eyes - you fear her loss, _nein?_ The loss of the warm little body, of course, but also the loss of the companion, the friend, the equal, the _knowledge_ that she has of you that no one else shares." He sighed. "And your oh-so-innocent twin, who ventures close to forbidden territory without even being aware of it... He must learn that perhaps he was never known as deeply as he thought he was... or as deeply as he might yet be."

A sip of wine, a swallow of the throat: the bump on his neck danced rather enticingly as it moved up and down. "Blood is difficult to wipe away, my friend. _Very_ difficult. The blood of those you love?" He set his wine glass down, and for the first time it seemed as if the control of the motion were less than absolute. "Ah, but listen to me ramble. I must be boring you so."

"No, no, not at all. Amusing you choose to refer to Artana's body as warm, though. It is sadly much the opposite. Lovers... unique creatures, all of them, and no single one to be less savored than another for their flaws and perfections alike. Lovers. I might have another tonight." He smirked, looking off into the crowd as he continued, a bit relieved that a chink in the other's armor seemed to have been exposed. Now that the crucial moment to dedicate his attention solely to Martin had passed, Ives used his reprieve from the tension of maintaining eye contact to theorize on those around him... and, perchance, to cast another line.

"So strange that people would choose to do what they don't want to. What power could possibly hold something over them? I'm a firm believer we are only as weak as we allow ourselves to be. Only as good as we are strong. It's so much more complicated to do the _right _thing, isn't it? Anyone can convince themselves it's easier, I suppose, to just steal that one coin or just say that one lie... but only the valiant suffer the hunger or take the arrow. Only the brave know the true nuances of a martyr. Reminds me of a story... Another time perhaps." He let his voice trail off, a deliberate tease, a hint and a promise for _next time, _and then changed topics once more. "Ah, but I love this country. I'd do so very much for Her, but I would always do what was in my power to be sure it aligned with my heart."

The glass was set once more between them, and Martin's long fingers moved over his mandolin, his eye shifting focus to something in the distance. Faintly, Ives could make out the melody of a lullaby. An odd choice... He broke from his consideration of the music when Martin murmured, "Strength is not always obvious." For a moment his eye closed as his head leaned back. "And suffering is not solely in the realm of the valiant."

"I think that depends on your definition of valiant. It needn't describe the man who stands before a lion. Everything in life is in the scope of the beholder. We are all but looking out between the bars of a cage, and all hold so little control. I am fortunate enough that at least I can walk with my cage. How nice it would be to taste freedom." A deep breath slipped in a gentle sigh that paired with a turning of his head, a move calculated to evoke an emotion not truly felt. It was time again for eye contact, and Ives gave Martin the most charming smile he could muster. "You know ... lions, cages, a handsome man... Have you ever danced _the Caged Lion_?"

A movement at the corner of his eyes caught Ives' attention: the tightening of fingers around a glass stem. _The seed is well planted, then._ It was also a good sign that when he had turned to Martin, he had found the eye on him already, as if waiting for another glance between them - a hint, perhaps, of a waking fascination? Martin abandoned his glass and brought his hand back to the mandolin, touching the strings without evoking a sound. "You speak of cages in both life and music in but two breaths? Ah, you are an intriguing man, Ives Durante."

For a moment, those words hung between them, and then Martin looked away, sitting up straighter in his chair as he chuckled. "Ah, so so, I have danced it many a time, my friend. Your fellow Warden, Riordan, as I recall, was a master of it. Still, I hardly think it would be a kind thing to expose an audience to either of our _marks_, as it were, _da?"_ His hands shifted over the mandolin, and again the light moved across the scars resting there, three parallel lines that spoke of purpose rather than an accident. Martin's gaze dropped to contemplate the scars, and for a moment, he froze.

Ives again bated his breath, wondering what was moving through the man's mind, and whether or not it would ruin his chances to redirect Martin's obsession.

With a movement so sudden it almost made Ives startle, Martin turned to look at Ives, the green eye wide and, somehow, _awake_ in a way Ives had not seen before. When he spoke, there was no hint of an accent - not the Anders one he had played all evening nor the Orlesian lilt Ives had heard in every other conversation with the man. "I have been devoted to her for so long... I do what must be done for her alone."

Abruptly he stood and stepped away from Ives, halting only when a blond-haired server danced in front of him with a quick apology, but Martin did not move forward again once the interruption had passed. The hand not wrapped around the mandolin's neck flexed and relaxed a few times. When he turned back to Ives, the uncertainty was gone, replaced by the same arrogance as before and a voice heavy with an Anders accent - but with an intense focus that Ives felt weigh oppressively on his shoulders. "You wish to dance, my friend?"

Though his heart was still pounding, more now than at first since the line had come so close to snapping, Ives pushed himself from the chair. The words without an accent, the ... _something_ in that green eye, Ives didn't know what it all meant, but he knew he had somehow made it to the final, crucial stage of his plan. Unfortunately, that stage had turned into something he wasn't sure he could do. Any bard who played high stakes in the Game knew several dances meant to tout skill without words, but he had made the mistake - or perhaps, luckily chosen the proper gambit - of selecting the most difficult of them all. He was a pawn, small and purest white, standing against a black rook. His only glimmer of hope was that the rook had some uncertainty yet to cling to.

Setting his own arrogant posturing into play, Ives began to work at the buttons of his vest. "I've certainly nothing to hide, _ami_. What is a scar but a story? Will you show me yours?" As he shucked the fabric their isolation drew to an end, several of the surrounding women intrigued by a disrobing Durante.

Yet still Ives watched Martin instead as the man smiled, teeth glinting in the lamplight. "Another challenge, my friend?" he asked as his hand reached up to remove his eyepatch, revealing the dark blue of midnight. "You pique my interest ever more." Quickly removing his hat with its feathered cockade and dropping it to the side, he began unlacing his shirt cuffs and the elaborate ruffle at his neck. As he watched his opponent divest himself of his own shirt, he pulled off his tunic and worked at the ties of the thin shirt beneath, his mismatched eyes never leaving the bard.

"Oh, but of course I do." Ives chuckled as he spoke, a different brand of confidence within his words now that the plan seemed solid. Martin was almost in his grasp, but the dance still loomed. If only a playful wink such as the one he'd just given would solve all his problems. Of course, he was now standing with the rakes of a Shriek down his front for all to see, and his companion _was_ disrobing. Not everyone took so well to that. In their gathering audience, a woman near them gasped.

Not daring to risk any further interruption, Ives turned to handle it himself. "Ah, do not worry, my fair Madame! We have a very specific reason to do such a thing, and it will be to your delight! Maestro!" Turning his head to shout over the din to the chamber orchestra next to the dancing stage, somehow Ives' voice had managed to command the attention of most of the party. He did learn some beneficial tricks in the life of a bard; a sing-song tone was a powerful thing indeed, and not just the mark of a rather frivolous fellow. "I think that this appearance after so long away merits something fantastically special. For the return of Ives Durante, I shall face a challenger. As we take the stage, please play _The Caged Lion!_ A treat for all who attend!" Ives looked behind him again to Martin, just to be sure he intended to follow, then bounded with impressive energy up onto the stage. To welcome him up and effectively close his escape with another challenge, Ives gestured extravagantly to his scarred ... acquaintance, and did his best to not linger too much on the 'stories' he had to tell.

Some things were best taken in small doses. "My opponent!"

Martin, apparently unwilling to be upstaged, leapt onto the stage with an equal amount of showmanship and bowed with a flourish, the light gleaming off a patchwork of purple and crosshatched scars on his back and front. "Gustaf Wulfrum, at your service, _Herr Durante._ And now, the music, if you please!"

"Liar, liar," Ives cooed through his teeth without the slightest wibble in his lips, locked as they were in a wide grin. His only reply was a wink from that midnight blue eye while they moved to their starting positions. As the long introduction to the dance burst forth from the chamber orchestra - a hint of what lay in store for the audience - both opponents rounded each other as much for preparation and loosening of the limbs as for display. If either of them had flaws in this dance, someone would undoubtedly take a blow for the mistake. It was tense, fiery, and required the utmost precision.

The notes changed abruptly, both bards snapping expertly into the first position. They spun towards and past each other, landing back on one foot just as their back heels crossed, Ives taking the first jump of the dance. From there, the tempo did not let up. It was as rigorous as a fight, as precise as a training routine. There were spins, widely flung arms, high kicks of the legs. They jumped and fell and spun several times more, their hands touching the ground nearly as often as their feet.

All the while Ives kept eye contact, his baby blues intense, his willing sacrifice in mind. He _could_ get Isabeau a reprieve. He knew it. And he could handle it. The crowd was completely mesmerized, but Ives had his attention only on his target, inwardly aware of the oddity of the position in which he found himself: attracting someone's exclusive attention for a purpose other than sex. As he pulsed through the movements for the dance, the irony that he was essentially _promising_ exactly that also did not escape him... but truth and lies were but convenient weapons in the Game, and this game involved life and death.

Martin whirled around Ives, smiling broadly as the dance continued, his hands progressing through the graceful forms of the _Caged Lion _as if it were second nature. His face, hidden behind the makeup of his disguise, was difficult to read due to the demands of the dance, so Ives finally, if a touch uneasily, turned his attention to the body. The scars told far more than most would be able to read: marks left by blade were covered with burns, long slashes were punctuated with scars left from round implements. Ives saw round scars as well, at various places on his lean but strong torso, indentations that were too regularly placed and too well-healed to be accidental, and a small part of his mind wondered who had left them. He had to force his mind to evaluate stance rather than scars, and watched for a shift, an indication that his desperate gambit, prompted by instinct more than logic, was correct.

_This would be another particularly opportune moment to let my plan work, if we are still erring on the side of your existence, Maker. _As the sting of sweat in his eyes caused him to blink and beg a different sort of prayer in those next moments, Ives took some solace in the fact that god or no, the _Caged Lion_ had a magic all of its own. As a bard in his own right, he could exert himself to take command of it - and he did so now, using his body and his gaze as his instruments, riding the notes and the unwitting current of power they gave him and turning it towards his goal: fixating Martin's dangerous intensity upon Ives Durante, and no other.

In Orlais, the _Caged Lion_ was generally danced in three unspoken paths: that of hatred, that of elegance, and that of attraction. In the beginning of the dance, the ripple of Martin's jaw, the set of his arms, and the lines of the muscles on his back indicated that for him, at least, this dance reflected an inner conflict: the jealousy and anger which had drawn him here tonight warring with the seeds of the attraction Ives had so deftly planted. Yet the dance called for light touches, for glancing blows, for extended eye contact; all opportunities for Ives to communicate with Martin in ways that words simply could not convey - and for the tight coil of magic the bard had woven to settle into the man as well. As the dance lengthened and more sweat formed on their torsos and faces, Martin's movements became subtly _different_, and slowly he shifted from the first path of hatred to the third path of attraction and its close twin, _lust_. The touches between them became ever more frequent, ever more lingering, and ever more _firm._ Instead of merely gliding by as they crossed the dance floor, Ives ensured buttocks touched, biceps grazed each other, and fingers steadied as much as opportunity allowed.

All of his work culminated in this one dance. All of the weeks since he'd learned of Martin, of the blight he had inflicted for so many years upon someone so undeserving, and the scope of those he was willing to hurt in his Game. As their eyes locked yet again, Ives silently implored, _Make _me_ your obsession._

The music, already accelerating as the dancers whirled toward the finale, abruptly hit a long, poignant note that lingered, a moment placed in the music by design to give the prancing Lions a chance to breathe before the final rush to the end. In that moment, it appeared as if someone had indeed listened to the silent pleas of the bard. Ives saw it all fall into place behind those mismatched eyes. The arrogance didn't diminish one whit - if anything, it increased as the smile broadened with a hunger that had been absent before - but now, Martin's focus was on Ives. No longer was the bard an annoyance, a curiosity, or a protector by proxy for his angel. Instead, Ives had _become_ the target, earning an errant shadow and all the attention that Isabeau had suffered under. The weight of his attention would now fall upon the shoulders of a willing martyr.

If he'd had the _time_ to be relieved, Ives might have shown it. Sadly, or perhaps thankfully, the last stretch of the song was the most punishing of them all, so such a risky slip of emotion wasn't even possible. When the last note finally hit, high and long and haunting, both men snapped into their final pose, sweat dripping from their bodies and chests heaving as the roaring applause fell on already deaf ears. There was just the last note, lingering as tangibly between them as the connection between their eyes.

The smirk stretched to a grin as Ives turned his attention to the crowd, the job of a bard never done. He took his bow, then gestured to Martin, holding his hand high. Another act for the crowd, and a wedge forcing distance between them when Martin clearly desired something else entirely. That realization was something, at least. Words could scarcely be heard between them just then, so they didn't matter... not until after they returned to their table to fetch their clothes, both hearts now pounding as Ives' had most of the night.

Martin carefully pulled his undershirt over his head, careless of the sweat. "Ah, my friend, you certainly have a way of making me reveal that which I would admit to no one else." His eyes twinkled. "In fact, I am of a mind to reward you for reminding me that sometimes, lies are very _inconvenient _little things."

WIthout any further warning, he reached out and grasped the waistline of Ives' pants, shoving him up against the nearest wall and closing in for a kiss every bit as thorough as the one that had been forced upon Isabeau that morning in the Durante estate - almost as if he were gauging how Ives would respond. Tongue dipping and weaving, Martin pressed against the bard full length, careless of the sweat and raucous calls behind them. Finally he relinquished Ives and pulled back. "Ah, but then every naughty little Durante deserves some _impressionable_ kisses once in awhile, _nein?"_

Ives could say he'd had worse. The kiss, actually, was fine. He was fairly aroused from the dance, after all. Even if the person he'd been dancing with wasn't acceptably attractive, if the dance went the route of _attraction_, the touches inherent to the already blood-pumping routine easily led to those reactions in a healthy man's body. Judging from what he felt as Martin ground his hips forward, the same physical reaction had claimed him as well, leaving Ives both fascinated and repulsed, but unable to show the latter in his reaction.

He needed to mask the hesitation where words couldn't find their way to his tongue, so Ives leaned forward and caught up the lips before him again, allowing his body to simply do as it pleased. In this test, Martin would surely only respond to a natural arousal, and such a dangerous opponent would easily detect anything less. His hands latched, his heel dug in and his thigh pressed forward, pulling the man close enough that their contact (and the ambient giggles and catcalls) doubled. With his eyes closed he could imagine another in his grasp, a muscular warrior more to his liking, altruistic as he was beautiful - perhaps the man mentioned earlier, the courageous and selfless Riordan, a man handsome inside and out. The thought was enough, and Ives let a soft, low groan follow the surge that caused his hips to roll forward.

"Don't I deserve more than just kisses?" Inspiration had struck, and Ives was able to open his eyes and face those mismatched ones without fear of losing the 'character.' "Earlier _someone_ threw around the word lover, mnh?"

Ignoring the whistles and catcalls, Martin brought his hand up to rest on Ives' cheek. His thumb rubbed gently along the bard's lower lip, feather-light and surprisingly erotic. His odd eyes, however, didn't waver as he looked deep into the baby blues across from him. For a moment they widened, and for some reason, Ives felt himself drawn to look at the green eye exclusively in the moment before Martin closed them both and brought his lips in for another kiss.

It was entirely unlike the first one, which had been hungry and demanding: a staking of territory, the claim of a man accustomed to dominance. This kiss... well, it was almost a lover's caress: slow, sensual, and soft, and without the overwhelming sense of authority that the first kiss had been. Martin's hand worked into the bard's silken, thick hair and pulled him a bit closer, but it was a gentle moment - and completely unlike anything that had come before.

The difference was jarring. Ives gasped, caught up in how to even process such a stark change, and knew that the way Martin's eyes had just widened would remain burned into his mind forever. Maybe ... there _was_ something more to him. _Maybe..._

Though he had thought nothing of it at first, another hand danced up during the distraction of the kiss. It seemed he was going to join the previous in massaging his scalp. It thus was a great surprise when a short, sharp pain suddenly pricked at his neck, instead. By the time Ives tried to speak against Martin's lips, he'd already lost the capacity to form any words. An insouciant whisper echoed in his ear as the world began to swim. _"Forgive me the monstrous headache with which you shall awaken, _mon ami_. However, we should prepare for our travels, _no?"

Perhaps the world going black was actually one of the more convenient things that could have happened in this situation.


	9. Dubious Victory

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Nine: Dubious Victory  
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He had won.

As Ives' eyes jumped open to searing midday light and the ringing of the noontime bells, that was the first thought that filtered through his groggy mind. The next, in very short order, were the muscle impulses to reach up and grab his head, and make a guttural sound that appropriately described the pain he now felt, respectively. The natural progression was for him to stay curled like that, his arms shielding his eyes from the light and his hands raking into his hair, wet with cold sweat that had undoubtedly come from his dreams.

Dreams... Were they dreams, or memories? They had felt so real, down to the feel of burning muscles and the straining for breath resulting from the exertion of the dance. And then, after... it was hard to make sense of what came after the dance. The kisses... he remembered three, very clearly, and the last had given him so many questions. There was a look in Martin's eyes he'd never seen before, and it was so _hopeful_ that Ives' more pessimistic side preferred to assume it had never really happened. _Then again..._ the sting of that pinprick was rather real, and his neck still hurt from it. Not so badly as his head, though.

More than the throbbing, Ives hated that he had _won,_ yet he still hadn't learned that much at all. There had been breakthroughs, but... _Never_ before had he been given so very much, yet walked away knowing so little. Artana would be livid that he was going to have to divide his attention, too. He sighed heavily and let his hands slide down his face, then neck, and along the topmost scar on his chest, blinking away the last of the sleep in his eyes.

A few seconds later, Ives realized something was amiss. Shock did a healthy amount towards waking him all the way, and Ives threw off his sheet.

He wore only as much as the day he was born.

Ives racked his brain as his heart began to race, eyes widening slightly. He had most _certainly_ gotten his shirt on after the dance at the_ very_ least, and he'd _never_ removed his trousers. It was true he was somewhat concerned about what _sexual_ activities may have happened without his consent, but he'd have to admit he _expected_ something like that. _Did _they have sex? Surely the bed would be ... mustier if that was the case, but then, Martin clearly liked to _fix_ imperfections. After he turned the matter over and over in his mind to try and glean information from the blackness of his unconsciousness, he finally shrugged at the futility of fretting over an outcome in which he'd been prepared to engage. _Though I would have at least preferred to have _chosen_ it, ah, lala... He is dangerous, a man in a world of his own rules and making, and the strength to support the grandeur._

As he shifted, the glint of fabric to the left of him caught his attention. Where Jean would have lain in the next bed (were he not in such need of comfort and cleaving to Artana) instead sat a neatly folded stack of clothes and likewise arranged items: Isabeau's box, a coiled note with a wax stamp of a castle silhouetted against a moon, and a small, familiar book. His blades were gone, and worse, his heirloom flute. That panicked him again, and he turned frantically to see if it could be located. On his bedstand, near a glass of water he was incredibly wary of, sat a new flute case - presumably with his flute still within. The old case, open and empty, was sitting in the wastebin near the writing desk: he could see it from where he sat. This was his room, but it was hard to say it felt like home with so many intrusions. _Life for Isabeau must have felt so every day. _

Drawing in a breath, Ives reached for the note and broke the seal, unfurling it carefully, as if it might bite.

"_I will forgive the theft of my angel's gift,"_ he murmured as he read, glancing to the little box he'd yet to quell his curiosity over, then continued, _"but insist on giving you one of your own._ ... One of your own." _The prayer book_? Ives put the note down and reached for it. It didn't take long at all to realize it was Cateline's book, complete with the dusky blue ribbon that had been her first favor to Jean - and, thus, belonged to his brother. _How could I have forgotten_? This was hopeful, though Ives couldn't say it was compassion for Jean on Martin's part - just consideration for what Ives might like. There was an underlying compassion in _that_, though, and for a moment he stared at the ceiling, thinking again of those eyes.

With a great, melodramatic sigh, Ives flopped back onto the bed again and simply lay still awhile, turning over all of the same thoughts. In time the matter of Isabeau's 'gift' came to mind again, and so he picked up that box and held it before him, carefully lifting the cover. Inside lay an amulet, strikingly similar to the one that Livilla wore, save that the shape of the paw imprinted upon it was different. He furrowed his brow. He was no tracker or ranger, and thus did not know which animal each imprint represented. After a moment's hesitation, he laid a finger on the leather cord from which it hung, and a warning growl echoed in his head.

Faster than thought, he snapped the lid back onto the box and dropped it a safe distance away on the bed. _Better to ask an expert,_ he decided, rubbing the faint scars on his neck as the memory of their birth echoed in his head.

That just left his flute, and he wasn't as certain about just picking that one up and carrying on as though it hadn't been handled by a murderer. A powder in the shaft, poison on the mouthpiece, some manner of trigger that would explode in a fiery, runic explosion... _The last we can at least presume is an overactive imagination, non? _

After a few moments of this little imaginative back and forth, he retrieved the flute case and put it on the bed, gave it a little shake before setting it on the blanket, then turned it over to examine it more closely. The new case _was_ lovely, tailored to the flute almost to a disturbing degree - a detail which made him wonder about the nature and length of Martin's observance of him and his twin. A fine filigree of silver outlined the Durante crest across the front, while a smaller inset box of gold displayed the griffon of the Grey Warden on the back.

All in all, this was an item that spoke of the same twisted care Martin had shown in selecting Isabeau's presents: custom made and suited precisely to the recipient. His eyes moved to the discarded flute case, and he frowned slightly. "Yet you displace what was in our lives before, to make yourself a part of it." He glanced at the odd amulet that had been given to Isabeau, unsure how that fit into the overall scheme of things, then shrugged and returned his attention to the case before him.

"Ah, lala, my enigma, what dreadful surprise shall I find inside?" He could only pray it was just the case that was replaced, and not the flute as well. Finally he braced himself and opened the case slowly, revealing the secrets within.

His flute - a bit old, a bit weathered, and as dear as an old friend - lay nestled within a beautiful inner lining of dark gold velvet. On top of the flute, however, was a folded piece of paper with only his name written gracefully on it. A reluctant smile came to his lips. "As if any other would find it first." Still cautious, he retrieved the paper and opened it, curious how this note would differ from the other one.

Inside he found no words, only a drawing. His eyebrows rose and he remained silent as he saw a most unexpected subject - himself - lying in bed, naked but with a blanket drawn up over his hips. The salient anatomy was hidden tastefully enough to call the detailed shading and hatches fine art... except for one little detail. The suggestion of something beneath the blanket of which any man would be proud did make him chuckle, and he peeked below for a comparison reference. While both humorous and accurate a rendition, it was the depiction of his own face that arrested his attention. "Surely no one is that... perfect," he murmured. "Ah, and I thought we were past that age in the arts. But then, if he were mired in reality, I think we wouldn't have the troubles we do."

Ives folded the paper and put it back into the flute case, though he slid it underneath the velvet insert so that it would be secure for times to come. What a night - what a _morning_. He had an entirely new set of worries now beyond attracting the undivided attention of a sociopath who might very well prefer him to be some kind of unliving flesh golem than a person - obviously, said sociopath was _complex_. Ives only found solace in the fact that his hindquarters weren't sore when he stood. Coupled with the drawing, he even had sneaking suspicions he had been left alone last night. ... Relatively speaking of course.

Raking a hand back through his hair, Ives meandered to his dresser, pulled out a set of clothing that (unlike the one sitting on Jean's bed) he wasn't somewhat wary of, and looked out the window. "I hope that you think me idyllic come our next meeting. Else I might not protect Isabeau long after all."

A bath was in order and a night's worth of errands neglected. Staring aimlessly at the view wouldn't do today, so he slid on his pants (the minimum requirement for walking through the Keep whilst sober) and headed down to the basement to cleanse away some of the stress.

In the lazy hours that passed he was reminded that they would need transportation for the upcoming journey that he had almost forgotten about. It would have been nice to have a nice, relaxing vacation after such an extreme ordeal, but that truly would have been too easy. At least he knew where to secure said transportation with relative ease - and knew precisely who to ask to be his accomplice in acquiring it.

.~^~.

"_Chèrie."_ It was a much changed Ives who called from the fence surrounding one of the training partitions: one who was dried and dressed and smelling of lavender from his exorbitantly priced scented soap. Though there were three trainees within the ring, it stood to reason that he was speaking to Isabeau - unless he made a habit of calling a surly-looking, scarred man who was no doubt a cold blooded murderer or a scrappy elven mage also of the male persuasion by the feminine diminutive _chérie_. "Can I steal you away?"

"Of course, lout," Isabeau said, stepping back and lowering her sword and shield before heading to Ives. The sword was smoothly returned to its sheath and the targe slung over her arm as she walked to him, followed by a cursory mopping at the sweat on her brow with a cloth. When she reached the fence, she grabbed one of the pitchers of water that was readily available throughout the practice area. "What do you want?"

Ives was distracted a moment by the evil look directed at him by the scarred man - presumably for taking Isabeau away - and only belatedly did he focus on Isabeau, after she'd begun to drink. "Making friends, I see. Ah, _oui, _I was wondering if you'd enjoy a little trip. Are you fond of horses? No tricks or puns," he assured her, "I'm merely inviting you to the stables. Ah, lala, and that is no entendre, either."

She lowered the pitcher, but her eyes didn't rise to meet his. "I... I do like horses. _Pére _had some horses." Her mouth twisted slightly, and she leaned over and put the pitcher down. "You won't need to teach me how to ride, but Livilla... She'll need a mount for the journey, but she's never ridden on horseback. We took a carriage most of our way from Montfort." Rubbing her hands against her trousers to wipe off most of the sweat, she quickly exited the training area and tucked her cloth into her belt. "Perhaps we could stop by my room first so I could freshen up? I'd prefer not to go anywhere near the Durante Estate looking like this, even if we are just going to the stables."

"As you wish, though I think you look as stunning as a rose, if perhaps you don't smell quite so fresh as one at this precise moment." He chuckled, hoping the mood would be contagious. Considering the night he had endured, his hopes were high to put as much negativity behind him as he could. "After you."

Though he did dance ahead enough to open doors for her despite her protests, their conversation on the way to her room was light and insignificant. The question of why precisely she was avoiding his eyes didn't come up just yet, though he did flip it round and round in his head as he waited outside her room for her to dress.

When she came out, her hair was tidied and braided, and she wore a tasteful dress of light blue samite. It was a riding dress, though, with a split skirt to allow mounting and unmounting of horses, and a pair of leather gloves were tucked into her waistband. "There. I think I'm ready to try some horses out. Hopefully the stables has mounts for people who are..." Her eyes glanced up to the top of his head before she looked away. "Less gifted with height than you. Livilla could ride a tall horse, but I might need you or Jean to give me a hand up if you don't have something a trifle shorter."

"We will see what can be done," Ives said with a chortle.

She'd been to the estate once before now, so this time the walk was something both of them could spend a little more time enjoying. Ives told her little stories as they went to fill the occasional silence, her continued dodges of eye contact avoided in the interest of ease.

"I've seen this property more times in three days than I had in two months. I'm torn as to whether it's a good thing or not. Ah, lala... This way, the stables are around back. Jean and I stable our horses here. Artana's mare Assan sometimes stays here, depending on the needs of the Wardens." His own little dappled stallion, Carrot, would be very pleased to meet the visitor to the stables, though Jean's Ebony could be a trifle standoffish to visitors. "There's ... been additions to the stables at the Keep thanks to Assan ... 'meeting' Carrot. The brilliantly creative name belongs to my stallion, of course. Her mare is named for what I've come to understand is the Dalish word for 'Arrow.' She certainly is fast." With the crunch of gravel beneath their feet on the drive and sweeping gestures to keep his words a little more interesting, they were happily able to completely ignore the barking of the grounds dogs and, no doubt, the barking of the resident mutt up in his study.

"I'm a bit surprised that... Bernard," the hesitation was obvious, even if the reason for it was not, "lets you keep such expensive animals here. I assume you have to pay for their housing, but why let you keep them here in the first place? For the children? Jennine would have to learn to ride if she wishes to achieve the rank of Chevalier, much less go farther."

"Ah, very astute, _mon floraison_, though I wonder how difficult a stretch it was to imagine Bernard was doing all within his power to rob us every sovereign he could. In fact yes, the children do often use Carrot, and both he and Jean's fine stallion from his station as a Chevalier are frequently used for breeding stock. Despite that we pay all the same, and honestly, I can't truly imagine Carrot terribly minds the existence." Once they reached the stable doors Ives once again held it aside for her, the eight stalls each filled with a fine specimen. "The rather plain, if lovely, fawn is Assan, the black one there is Jean's Ebony. As you can tell, we share a similar talent for naming, my brother and I. Ah, lala, and this charming rose dapple stud is my Carrot. I'm sure you can imagine what his favorite food is."

A smile did creep onto Isabeau's face at that comment, and for the first time she looked at him, as if to verify whether or not he had a grin on his face. "All right, I'll bite. Carrots?"

Naturally, as the bait was taken and she was so terribly curious about his face, he kept it as straight and bland as possible. As though he were a man who had heard that a thousand times if he'd heard it once, Ives simply announced in his most under-spiced tone, "Apples."

She reached out and bumped his upper arm with her fist, unable to stop her chuckle. "Lout. Stop playing us like lutes."

The laughter was contagious, so it bubbled from him, too, as he reached out to give a little push back. "You know, sometimes I think Orlesians forget the original meaning of the word _game_, hm? Ahh, but fine, I confess, Carrot adores his namesake. Isn't that right, my handsome, whorish little man?" Abandoning his hawkish scrutinizing of her face now that he'd seen a smile upon it, he retreated to lightly grasp his much beloved Nevarran breed's muzzle and rub his forehead against the long, flat expanse of his nose. "Who missed their daddy, hmm?"

"You're even more adventurous than I thought if _that_ is true," she murmured. Ives caught a hint of her lingering smile as she reached up and stroked the neck of the tall black horse. As her fingers dug under his mane, the horse leaned into her hand eagerly. She smiled sadly and set her head against his, so her next words were muffled a bit. "How is your brother?"

"Oh, fine and well enough. He spent the night with Artana, so I'm sure he's worked out some frustrations, _non?"_ Another short chuckle sounded, though it was less at his brother's expense and more out of jaded wonder if he'd had the same sort of end to his evening without even knowing it. "I imagine _that man_ will be bothering us less from here on out. Jean will wind down eventually. Out of sight, out of mind, it is always said. By whom, a mystery, I am sure. I know more idioms than there are idiots and can't accredit a one to anyone. Ah, what is a bard to do!"

Her head lifted and jerked around when he mentioned _that man_, and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. "Why do you say that? He didn't... I-" Ebony shook his head and nudged forward again, forcing her attention back onto scratching his forehead until his eyes once again were heavy-lidded with pleasure. "He won't give up." The weariness in her voice was enough to pull sympathy from Ives, and to draw him away from Carrot to bring attention where it was needed most. The horse wouldn't die of another five minutes by himself.

"I just have my suspicions he'll be busy with another, is all, _chèrie_. Besides, we will be on the road come morning. That will have to slow him down, at least a little. Why, not a single person I know can be in two places at once, don't you agree? He clearly has far too much meddling to do in Orlais to completely abandon it to tail a band of Grey Wardens." The sympathy he felt manifested in a soft smile as he rested a hand gently on her shoulder, squeezing it just so to remind her that he was _here, _and more importantly, Martin was not.

A heartfelt sigh escaped her as she leaned into him. "I admit, I'm looking forward to leaving Val Royeaux. He's never followed me into the countryside, though I haven't been in them much beyond simple travel. I'm still surprised how quickly he found us when we came here. How he found out where we were going..." Her voice trailed off, and her hand fell away from Ebony as her arms crossed her body in a close self-embrace. "I still wouldn't wish him on anyone else, though. He seemed obsessed with Livilla until she marked him, and then I started getting more presents than ever for a while." She looked up at him, and he saw her tiredness in the smudges under her eyes and the hollowness of her cheeks. "At least once we go, he won't have a reason to target the children. He's... very good with children, when he needs to be."

Ives was silent for a good few moments more than was awkward, but in the light of the emotion lingering in the air, it didn't read that way. His fingertips brushed one of her hollow cheeks and slid to her chin, tilting it up just so that the light would hit it in a way to hide the pallor of exhaustion. He smiled more intently, more contagiously, and brushed along her chin as he pulled back his hand. "Well... I wouldn't wish him on you. Come, we've got to pick you a horse yet, and whisk it away before Bernard becomes more the wiser."

Her smile grew in response to his, but her hand waved in the air as she straightened into a more ladylike posture. "He's not very difficult to bribe, I've noticed. I possess far more valuable items than Montfort Red, if it comes to that." Ives marvelled at how she didn't even seem to notice the motion herself when her arm slipped neatly alongside his, hooking to tangle them in a very friendly posturing. As her eyes examined each new horse, she said softly, "I just wish there was something I could give Jean to make the smile return to his eyes."

Though Ives moved smoothly along with her through the stables which he had every intention to larcon, inside he had been given considerable pause. It wasn't anything he was going to comment on, but the simple fact she'd even noticed that about his brother was a hopeful little glimmer for him. Good friends could become more, after all. Maybe even distractions from a shared suitor. "Ah, well, I can dream," he muttered off-hand, sighing dramatically as Isabeau slowed to a halt before the horse in the last stall on the left. "This one caught your eye, has it?"

Isabeau nodded thoughtfully. "Fourteen hands is usually what I prefer. Is she thirteen or fourteen tall?" Releasing Ives' elbow, she stepped forward and held out her hand, clucking her tongue softly to make the horse come to her. With an experienced hand she reached up and began to scratch the horse's neck, her face softening as the mare wickered softly and nuzzled at her hair. "Oh, she's got a lovely personality, too. What is her name?"

"Oh, knowing Bernard, probably Stock Mare Sixteen. That burden can be all yours, as the theft shall be all mine. There's her saddle there. It won't be fitted to you, of course, but at least it's fitted to her. Make sure you steal away every accoutrement you see - my next return is going to be a colorful one once Bernard discovers the empty stalls later." He winked at her before backing away. "Ebony takes a particularly dreadful amount of time to dress. Hopefully Jean won't be expecting the full heraldry. At least Artana rides bareback. One less saddle to orient."

"Hmmm." Isabeau tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Then let's pick out a horse for Livilla while we can." She moved her hand back to the horse which still sniffed at her and patted her gently. "And I think you shall be Rhea, after Mama's horse." With a final rub, she let go of the horse and headed back to another stall where a tall, lanky mare of a nondescript greyish brown had stuck her head over the stall door and was watching them carefully. "How's the gait on that one? Livilla will need one gentle enough to compensate for the fact she's never ridden before."

Ives really had no defense for the way he giggled, but the opportunity in those words was just far too much for him to ignore. "Hasn't she?" he asked with perfect innocence. "Well, I don't _think_ it would be too much for her to handle. She seems a formidable woman. I trust she'd even enjoy it. Quite a bit of power between her legs... and of course, as is often the case with a well-trained stallion, she'd have the run of him for it."

"That is clearly a _mare_, you lout!" She stamped her foot, possibly to offset the smile that was vying for attention on her mouth with a frown. The frown won out, finally, as she looked at the mare. "And... and she really wouldn't like you to talk about her like that."

Ah, as soon as he had begun to chuckle, there was the sting that could take it away. His good mood suffered under such fire, Livilla's comparing his compliments to Martin's fresh on his mind. The oddity of a lesson on the matter of appropriateness coming from a source other than his brother only compounded it. "I find it a sin that she cannot enjoy herself. All those who would shun her or try to make her suffer more... They deserve that treatment, not Livilla. I trust there's a part of her within that would quite enjoy banter like this, _non?_ Yet here we stand, wondering how her head would hang or her heart would ache. Livilla is a charming woman. How unfortunate her outside does not match within. The world is too unkind a place to see it."

Isabeau bit her lip and looked away, back to the mare she'd spotted earlier. Her response was not immediate, either, as she went to the horse and began to introduce herself. Finally, after the animal's curiosity had been answered to a degree, she said quietly, "When we were young, she was more... lighthearted, it is true. The world has not been kind, but in this case... she may blame Martin, but it is more than that." Her dark blue eyes landed on Ives. "The only man she has taken to her bed was blind - a Warden veteran who enjoyed the sound of her laugh. His Calling came the year after." Her hand patted the mare without thought as she frowned. "In this case, it is also more than just a matter of 'enjoying herself.' It's because it is-" The horse interrupted her, nudging her forcefully for more attention. Isabeau complied, falling silent as she scratched at the horse's neck with more vigor than before. Clearly the horse was no ally of _his_.

He stepped forward a half step, a frown on his own lips. She kept her eyes turned away from him with good reason, knowing how much he could search for in them. At this point he couldn't hope to finish her sentence for her, even despite all of his experience with the world's less-than-endless variances in human beings. Isabeau had always proven to be among the least predictable he'd ever met, though. "No doubt that fortune is unearned. But ... I cannot hear words unspoken. What more a matter is it?" It had been surprising (at the least) to hear Livilla's confession that day, but knowing as little as he did about her so far had been a bit of a frustration for him for weeks now. It was another crusade he yearned to embark upon, but with Martin such a challenge as he was, even Ives had to wonder if he had the _capacity_.

Isabeau sighed. "That is for Livilla to tell." She stroked the horse one final time, then turned to Ives. "So, shall we take these two now? How did you want to handle the acquisition?"

With little hope to persuade this discerning warrior, Ives put his attention to what he _could_ manage. "Ah, the horses... Yes, well, I intended to saddle the four, bridle Assan, and then tie the three bridles to the two we ride. That ride I intended to be a calm canter out of the estate. It should be simple. Well, until Bernard realizes that we've taken more than our own." Clearly not too concerned about _that_, Ives chuckled again, trying to reintroduce the good mood. "Let me worry about that, though. What is the worst he could possibly do?"

"While we are gone? Not much, considering Jennine is more than his match." She smiled at him. "I can't imagine he would be able to budge the children's opinion of Jean, after all, and so there will be time for his anger to fade back to its customary level of nominal apoplexy." She shook her head, then looked around. "So, time to start saddling?"

"Mm, no thank you. I think we'll use them on the horses instead," Ives said, smirking even as Isabeau glared at him.

.~^~.

A few hours later - four new horses safely in the Wardens' stables alongside the returned Assan - Ives was whistling and in a much improved mood. They would be leaving Val Royeaux soon. That was a mixed point for him - he would miss his home, despite its Game, but there was no cure waiting for any of them in Val Royeaux. Artana's combat record alone had easily earned her the right to find a retirement that didn't involve wading through muck and mire 'til she died to the darkspawn.

He and his brother? They had obligations within Val Royeaux that were best not left to others, if it could be avoided. Unlike Artana, though, with adequate self-preservation, they had over twenty years to avoid the fate of their own Callings. This time next year might be lonely indeed if they weren't successful, but he'd done _vast_ amounts of research. He had nothing but optimism. Borne of corrupt dealings in the Orlesian Circle Tower in a time of rebellion, he knew the medallions they sought existed _somewhere_. He knew their purpose, and as such he _knew _there was hope. In some ways, he wasn't all too demanding: hope was enough to sate him for now.

So with their mission in his mind and Martin far from it, and the amusement from imagining Bernard's face when he realized hundreds of sovereigns worth of equine equity had simply trotted right out from under his nose, Ives' good mood persisted. His steps carried him (in time with his whistling) around the corner of the Keep and back into the courtyard, offering him a view of the training spaces and the grand gate. Two figures were standing at it, unimportant to a cursory glance - but then, he thought for a moment the blond man standing with his arms hooked through the bars looked a great deal like his Fence, and he looked again.

While there were certainly similarities to DuMere in his blond hair, it couldn't have been him. That had become all the less interesting, though, considering with whom he spoke. Livilla was on the other side of the gate, leaning against the column, speaking with him intently. She flipped her hand here and again to animate something, to which the blond man would respond with chuckle or a head movement, vaguely gesturing as well when he spoke. The sound of her light laugh floated through the air when the man made a particularly exaggerated gesture that _might_ have had additional meaning, though without hearing the conversation, Ives could not know for certain.

Naturally that made him want to know all the more, so Ives stopped whistling and began to detour away from the Keep and out to the gates, keeping his steps quiet and his intentions dubious. Livilla's laugh held a beauty rarely heard from a face that few would call beautiful, and Ives had just crept into earshot. Eager to hear what the blond man had to say, he held a hand to his ear and caught...

... Caught... the very disappointing finale of their conversation, the mysterious blond bowing extravagantly as he pulled back from the gates. Ives' eyes widened and he hurried back a few steps, the possibility of getting caught quite high without Livilla distracted. He had his suspicions that her missing eye had migrated to the back of her head - and his regrets that such a joke was probably too morbid for polite company. A nimble dance around a rack of shields had him well hidden as she turned from the gate, and impeccable nonchalance was simple to enact with a flute that needed polishing. Even as he rubbed a little cloth around the mouthpiece of his fine silver antique, he snorted a soft breath of a chuckle. _The entendre is the world's finest comedic gift. _

They had a long journey ahead of them. Hopefully everyone agreed about his comedic stylings. Otherwise it would feel quite a bit longer... well, for them. Once he was certain that Livilla was none the wiser of his spying, he slipped his flute into its new case - kept after a long debate in which he decided it was better to _appear_ to accept what had been gifted - and trotted into the Keep, intent on finishing those last few errands before the trip tomorrow.

Later that night, after the last arrangement had been made and the final missive sent, Ives crept into his quarters, uncertain whether or not Jean would be there or finding solace in bed with Artana. When the empty bed informed Ives of Jean's location, he felt an odd mixture of relief and jealousy. After what had happened in the Durante estate, Ives knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his gentle brother had indeed suffered from the expertly aimed attack, an injury all the more subtle since it touched not flesh or bone. And yet, Ives himself had not been able to rest in the arms of his sweet Dalish princess for more nights than he cared to recount, and after the events of his confrontation with Martin, he ached for the sweet, _pure_ release more than ever...

He sighed as he quickly dressed himself for slumber. Ah, but it was a long-standing agreement between the brothers: _only one in her bed at a time._

Shaking his head, he threw back the covers and lay down. After a few tosses and turns, he settled into a position that allowed him to at least relax his body, though his mind continued to race - a not uncommon occurrence the night before a journey. Still, he had learned the trick of forcing his body into at least the semblance of sleep so that it would feel refreshed come morning even if his mind could not claim the same.

Sometime during the night, between worrying about the varying colors of the coming year's street festival candies, the recent plague of political murders, and what he was going to have for breakfast, Ives heard the faintest of whispers in the room, a sound that could not possibly have been made by a returning brother - or any other Warden, for that matter. Instinct led him to the most obvious suspect to produce the sound, and his racing thoughts halted as his immediate surroundings became his only concern. Letting his eyes open to the merest slits, he forced his body to remain relaxed as he caught the barest of movements in the shadows.

The motion resolved into a tall figure which slipped through the darkness of the room as if it were a second home. He watched it as best as he could without betraying the state of his awareness, knowing he was at a most distinct disadvantage in this situation. As Martin - for it could not possibly be another - settled into a kneeling position next to the bed, Ives fought to keep his pulse and breathing in order, not particularly wanting to know how the man would react if he suspected Ives were awake.

When Ives was absolutely sure he couldn't quite manage it for more than the scant couple of minutes he had, he shifted subtly and drew a breath, his tone carrying that particularly groggy ruggedness of a man more than half asleep. He raised his hand and pointedly missed his face, then tried again to scratch an imaginary itch before muttering something about cranberries. Theatrics in place, Ives shifted more and turned the opposite way, supposing that the loss of his view of the man was probably better than having his chest so obvious to someone so well trained in reading breaths. After all, his life's work was to stop that phenomenon in as many unfortunate targets as were necessary. Hopefully, Ives hadn't earned such a status so very soon into this misadventure.

After a while, he could make out the barest of sounds, a soft scratching noise that made... no sense, honestly. He had expected total silence or_..._ well, he wasn't sure what he would have expected beyond nothing. It seemed to stretch into eternity, though more likely only a few minutes passed. Finally he heard a whisper of cloth, and the sensation of someone _hovering_ over him, accompanied by a faint whisper of... _paper,_ the edge of sound from a piece of it being folded.

Then, with a final whisper of cloth, the sense of another person in the room simply... disappeared. Strange as it all had been, there were some things that made more sense now. Clearly he'd been taking a drawing, much like the one that had been left the night after they danced the _Caged Lion_. While he'd suspected that the idealized picture had been drawn from a live model, he was grateful it had not progressed farther than mere scratches on a piece of paper. With the netting of scars that practically covered the assassin head to toe, Ives couldn't quite ignore the dark and admittedly frightening thought that perhaps he would have had _other_ ideas than paper to express his art.

Assassins were an interesting breed, and sadly he knew all too many of them. True, yes, Orlais in general preferred to _destroy_ a person rather than to mercifully end their suffering by killing them, but assassins were still in demand. Between the Court and his deep involvement with the Thieves' Guild, _plus_ the refugee assassins hiding away in the Wardens, he could name enough acquaintances to claim a certain familiarity with the _type_ of person who chose the path of assassin. The vast majority of those he knew considered themselves artists in a most macabre way, their vision of death as fine an art to them as a poem to the tune of love might be to himself. No, Ives couldn't find 'art' in a single pinprick dropping a six foot man to the stone, nor could he find 'beauty' in a slit throat and its wide bloom of crimson, but he knew several men - and one or two women - who _could_.

Whether the art Martin created was a healthy hobby to draw him away from work or a pastime when he was bored of killing that was just waiting to blossom into something gruesome, he honestly couldn't quite tell. The worrisome possibilities made his skin crawl, as it may just have been his skin that would feel any ... conflicting artistic differences.

In the end it was all really just aimless speculation that had chewed up the remainder of his night. Ives finally let his eyes open back up and sighed: the light in the sky through his thin hewn stone windows told him there'd be no sleep for him before their departure at false dawn. He rolled from the bed considerably more sore than he would have preferred prior to a months-long occupation of a hard leather saddle, particularly since he hadn't experienced that particular _pleasure_ for quite some time.

All things considered, maybe this was a better alternative. The saddle, that is. Even though his frustration was slowly and steadily mounting to where he'd gladly take a different manner of sore ass altogether, it was truly a concern that Martin would do more than temporary damage. The man _had_ taken Ives' daggers, after all - perhaps so that Ives would be defenseless against him. Still, if Artana kept leaving him so far from her bed...

That was a thought for another day. Ives began to dress himself, preemptively rubbing his ass as he thought again about the saddle after buckling his breeches. As he surveyed his supplies, hip lighter than it should be without his blades, he sighed, "This ... will be a long trip."


	10. Hidden Strength

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Ten: Hidden Strength  
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"This group has an agenda against fun," Ives grumbled, an hour into a debate about the varying armors available to the fairer of the sexes. They had been riding in precisely the right angle for the sun to make them wince, so he gladly allowed Carrot to deal with most of the steering while he looked elsewhere. His mind followed his eyes forward, considering the way Artana's torso was all too happily bared in Dalish leathers. The resulting conversation had gone to the direction ... well, to the direction most would _unfairly stereotype_ him to bring it in. "It's not the _battle function_ of a woman's armor that's important when you're talking about being-"

"Ives! Please, we are in polite company!" Though Jean tried valiantly to interrupt, the discussion clearly having elevated beyond what his delicate sensibilities could handle in one afternoon, Ives wouldn't allow him to have quite the last, _predictable_ word. "It's one thing if they'd _asked_ you, but, spare-"

"-them the _indignity_, yes, yes," Ives sighed. Jean glared in return, but Ives knew it was simply a symbol of victory. He knew his brother would turn to give him an admonishing glare, and he waited until Jean's eyes were upon him before he rolled his eyes and settled back in his saddle, a hand on his thigh.

Isabeau, the accidental instigator of the subject matter at hand, cleared her throat. "All I meant was that there must be a way to design armor which allows more movement without sacrificing coverage or protection." Her hand went to the griffon on her breastplate. "I didn't mean that the current armor should be, ah, _reshaped_ so as to... conform to the contours of the wearer."

"Yes, let us guide the blade to the heart with channels," Artana commented. Honestly, though she had spurred the conversation with her ... _sparse coverage_, Ives couldn't believe she was actually paying any attention to what they were saying.

"Ah, but the opportunity!" Ives insisted, the reward for his enthusiasm coming in the form of a groan from Jean. "Why _not_ do this? Surely we all agree that Artana's Dalish armor is most enticing, on or off the battlefield, so why should such a style of beauty be ignored simply because one woman is an archer and another a warrior of the sword and shield? If the steel is hard, the sword will be no worry." A purposeful misconception for the sake of momentum.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want steel closer to my chest on cold mornings," Isabeau retorted, teasing Ives directly this time. "Frigid metal would _not_ be welcome there, I assure you."

"Such a cruel image to put in my mind, _cherie." _Indeed, it was, particularly since it brought to mind that most singular dress she'd worn which he'd been virtuously trying to forget. Valiantly he tried to shift that line of thinking to contemplate Artana's appearance should such a piece of fashion come into her possession, but sadly that only meant he thought of _both_ women in the slip of fabric and _more_ mounds of pale flesh exposed. "And entirely inapplicable to a discussion of improving armor for the purpose of aesthetics."

Eyes dancing with mischief, Isabeau arched an eyebrow. "I notice you are not talking about 'improving' your own armor, or Jean's. It seems a trifle unfair for you to come up with ways to put my figure on display when yours is still so very well hidden."

Livilla snorted. "It's not as if we haven't seen the singing lout in all of his dubious glory _anyway_, so there's nothing new actually entering into the conversation." She paused, ignoring the sputtering coming from Ives as Isabeau ducked further down in her saddle. "Though admittedly, I was not there for Jean's accidental-"

"Why are you stripping in front of recruits?" Artana asked Ives, not waiting for Livilla to finish.

"You didn't ask _Jean_ that!" Ives balked.

"I have no reason to be concerned about Jean," she replied simply.

"You are a woman of a cold, cold heart." Without a victory in _this_ battle, Ives swiftly resorted to the standard fallback: pouting.

"Do not worry, Commander," Livilla assured Artana in a calming tone. "He had the good sense to wait until Isabeau woke up after her Joining to display the goods. No recruits were debauched, I assure you."

"_Livilla!"_ Isabeau said, face flaming red.

The mage glanced back, and Ives was unsurprised by the smirk on her face. "What? You'd rather I describe what you were wearing when I found you with the lout behind a locked door?"

"I... will not be getting sex for quite some time, I imagine." Ives sighed, making assumptions based on Artana's neutral expression. "Well, enjoy, _frère_..."

Jean took a steadying breath. Ives wasn't certain how the man hadn't popped yet, with all this talk of sex and breasts and other things the man's carefully formed concepts of chivalry deemed more than merely inappropriate for discussion in mixed company. "I … would just enjoy if we could discuss something other than nudity and debauchery."

"Wouldn't you always," Ives retorted. "You know, you ought to relax more. Have a bit of fun!"

"I am perfectly capable of fun when it is _appropriate,"_ Jean insisted. "This is simply not the time-"

"-or place, yes." The sentence was not hard to finish, sadly. In some ways his brother truly was entirely too predictable. Ives squinted up at the sun and reached for his water, frowning when he found the container empty. "But it _is_ the time and place to find some more water. The horses will be due for a rest soon anyway, _non?" _Gathering Carrot's reins a bit more firmly, he nudged the horse forward. "I shall return with the location of water in which to frolic - or, as _some others_ would prefer, _not_ to do so."

It was only a few minutes after he'd left them behind when his mind turned to a contemplation that had persisted since leaving Val Royeaux. The conversation had been entertaining - particularly towards the end - but it had been naught but a distraction from what still ruled his thoughts. Letting Carrot pick his own path, Ives reached beneath his tunic and pulled out a piece of paper kept there since their departure from the Keep. The memory of the dance with Martin manifested in a scrutiny of the drawing he'd left, and Ives found himself dwelling upon it more than was likely healthy.

Still, it was almost irresistible. _This depiction, it holds such intention, such flow, such skill and beauty._ Ives ran his finger over the lines of the small drawing of himself, trying to somehow see them through the eyes, through the _mind, _of the one who had laid them to paper. _Ah, _mon ami_, what are you? Be you man, beast, or simply something I have not yet found a name for? I dare say I do not even know exactly _how_ to worry about you properly - as of yet._ His ears picked up the sound of hooves approaching, and he quickly tucked the paper underneath his tunic, attempting nonchalance to avoid questions. The music of the clicks and clops - a parade-ground cadence, even while traveling - told him who approached, and he turned with a smile to regard his more muscular, if less _charming_, mirror. _"Oui, mon frère?"_

"We were not sure where you had gone for so long. Artana found water not long after you volunteered to search for it." Jean wore a frown, and Ives believed perhaps he had earned it. In the last few days since leaving Val Royeaux, he had been remarkably quiet unless goaded into conversation, torn and mulling on the matter of his dangerous yet fascinating opponent in this game he played.

"Ah, I was simply caught up in the scenery. It has been some time since we saw more than city cobblestones, keep walls, or crumbling ruins." Ives gestured, a hand flourishing towards the trees, some still colorful thanks to the season. "But perhaps you have been too distracted by _other_ views to admire this one, _non_?" Ives' teasing smile faded, the immediate way guilt writ itself across Jean's face making him worry the jab had been too strong.

"You have ... have not asked her to share your bed that I am aware of. Do you think she has just fallen into habit, or is there something more?"

"Do you mean do I think she's finally decided to choose?" Ives asked, keeping the pain in his heart at the possibility far from his face. "Ah, but it felt as though she never would, _non_? It has been so long since our fight for her." With a rueful smile, Ives wondered, "I imagine, sometimes, what may have happened if she did not part our little brawl."

"Ives-" Jean began, his voice hesitant.

"No, no, _mon frère_, I am not bitter, I just marvel at our extraordinary situation. Think of it! We were raised as we were born, closer than close, before the argument which drove us apart." Ives paused. That was an old wound best left without specific mention. Like a puncture wound from a blade, the smallest scratch might open the whole thing up again. It was a long time ago, besides. A mistake that had driven them into completely opposite worlds, with Jean embracing an idealized chivalry in the Chevalier while Ives danced into the decadence and deception of the Game. "Fortunately, Cateline's taste in men surpassed her taste in music."

Jean smiled fondly, but Ives knew he wouldn't laugh boisterously save to convince others of his happiness - a facade Jean did not maintain around Ives. "She spoke often of that. I would have liked to see you stand straight in that armor. To think, she had no idea of how I felt about her."

"Singing in Chevalier armor is quite the trick, I assure you. The echoes are extraordinarily distracting. I do not understand how you can wear such a thing in battle." Ives matched his brother's expression, from the happy recollection of Cateline to the inevitable melancholy of her loss. Quickly he moved the conversation on, knowing that her loss was yet another dip of the blade into Jean's flesh, another surface best left unscratched. "The Wardens proved a decent home for us, _non?_ A place to leave the past behind." Now his own face softened in memory. "And, of course, it is where we met Artana. Already second to the Commander, even back then, and I could not have been more enraptured. Nor you, as it turned out." It was, by his own standards, a relatively minor jab, yet it still caused Jean's ears to redden. "A true miracle for us, regardless, since she is the one who truly brought us back together. I know it is not to your comfort, of course."

"I admit, it is not my first choice, this- this-"

"Sharing?" Ives provided.

Jean sighed. _"Oui._ Yet for a woman such as Artana..." Jean's voice trailed away.

"_Oui,"_ Ives said softly. "Perhaps I helped you to survive Cateline's passing, but it was Artana who brought you back into the fullness of life and joy again."

The warrior remained silent, looking away and at the ground. Ives wasn't surprised that it took him a little time to respond. All this mention of wounds, yet the threat of a new one loomed all too close to fade, considering Artana's health. "Just as she pulled you from the darkest depths of the Game," Jean finally pointed out. "You were a Grey Warden, but still you were recklessly consumed. She gave you a reason to allow yourself freedom from the worst of its excesses."

Ives nodded, though the thought of the Game made his hand rise almost instinctively to where the drawing lay under his tunic. _Has no such hero given _you _the same reason, Martin?_ he wondered. With a short shake of his head, he forced his hand down to wrap around Carrot's reins once more. "Very true, _mon frère._ Yet I am still most glad for our forced proximity, even if I am less than ecstatic about the reason for it. Slowly but surely, _non?"_

"Slowly but surely." It had become almost a code phrase between them, the slow but steady rebuilding of the bridge which Ives had inadvertently burnt to cinders so spectacularly in their youth. "And Artana-"

"-will make her choice when the little hummingbird hums its sweet song in her ear for only one of us." Ives could not deny a sharp pang that the song might one day omit his name, and saw Jean shift in his saddle as if an echo of the thought seemed to pass through his mind. "Or die with each of us at her side."

"Maker give us strength to prevent that," Jean said quietly, but with a fervency that rang true and clear.

Ives took his turn to shift uncomfortably in his saddle, a mirror to his brother a few moments prior. Faith was another divide between them, a difference Ives tried to downplay as much as he was able. He did frequently invoke the Maker to his struggles, after all. Yet where Jean had retreated into the Chant after Cateline's death, using his own interpretation of the Chantry's teachings as both comfort and shield against his loss, Ives had become more and more distant from the Maker and His Chantry, viewing the existence of the former and the sincerity of the latter with an increasing diffidence. In short, Jean prayed, Ives invoked, but only one had any hope for a response. Even Artana's presence in his life, miracle though he termed it, could as easily be due to the efforts of her Dalish Creators as the Maker. For Artana's sake, he would have faith in a wild animal, if it offered the key to her health. _"Oui._ It is, after all, the Durante motto: _Hope where others find none."_

Pushing the somber mood away as best he could, he turned a smile to Jean once more. "So, no, I will not begrudge you time with our Artana. I hold hope, you see, that the hummingbird's song will continue as it currently stands for many beautiful years."

Jean reached out and laid his gauntleted hand on Ives's gloved one, his bright blue eyes meeting a matching pair, and tightened around it. For a moment, the years and disagreements and distance fell away, and they were but two young boys who were all the other had in a world that seemed set against them. Ives felt a tickling at the back of his eyes as he turned his hand over and squeezed back. At the moment, Ives realized that no matter the outcome of Artana's choice, something fundamental had been restored to his life: he had his brother back.

"You know," Jean started, "Hummingbirds do not sing, they-"

"Ives! Jean!"

The two brothers looked back to the woman who called to them, moving as if synchronized with the clockwork so popular among the elite of Val Royeaux. _"Oui, amour?"_ they called in unison. Ives was a bit surprised everyone had caught up with the brothers during the conversation.

Even from this distance, Ives saw Artana's glowing amber eyes roll, and he shared a grin with Jean. "We are stopping to rest the horses. I need you two to attend to them so that I can scout ahead. The wildlife is too quiet."

They both straightened in their saddles, suddenly all business. "We will take care of it," Jean assured her, and turned Ebony to trot to where Isabeau and Livilla were waiting.

Ives urged Carrot closer to Artana, taking Assan's simple rein from her as she dismounted. "Trouble?" he asked softly.

"I will know more soon. Keep the horses here until I return. We may need them to be fresh if this turns out to be more than shy local fauna." Resettling her quiver across her back, she deftly strung her bow and looked up at him. "Tell the others to be ready."

He nodded, reaching back to pull his crossbow from its holster on his back for a quick inspection. It never hurt to be prepared, after all.

.~^~.

"Sixteen?" Isabeau gasped. Ives could only grin at her adorable surprise. With the horses taken care of and Artana still seeking to make sense of the eerie silence, there was little else to do but talk while waiting for her return. The twins were a favorite topic, it seemed. Ives was not fooled by how the women kept deflecting discussion away from themselves, but the men were also good sports about it. "For a man? That's... that's quite young for marriage, even among the nobles of Val Royeaux."

"Well, Bernard has nothing but high expectations for us... Even now, when he would rather our names be struck from the record, he expects us to uphold the Durante name so long as we have it. Sixteen is a man, is it not? Well, a man should be a father. Still, the old goat had to wait. We were just speaking about it earlier, actually. Ives dressed as me and poured out a poetic apology, and I think - had he not - I think Cateline never would have given me her favor at that joust." Jean smiled, as he always did when thinking of his early times with Cateline.

"Ah, to be fair, I imagine she was suspicious it was me - far more eloquent than_ you_ will ever be, _non_?" Ives grinned, his jab good-hearted but exceptionally true.

Isabeau giggled, interrupting Ives' thoughts "_I _don't think so," she said. "A little _too_ certain of himself, sometimes, is our little lout, right, Jean?"

"These sensitive ears are insulted..." the bard grumbled. Sensitive enough to hear someone approaching, as well. Everyone turned expectantly towards the rustling bushes, and Ives doubted he was the only one doing so with a hand on his weapon until they were certain it was Artana.

The Commander had indeed returned, though with bad news of a large encampment of bandits ahead - directly between them and their intended destination of Arlesans. With no simple way around them, the decision had been made to address the problem in a suitably metallic fashion.

"There's a gorge on the east side of their camp and hills to the west," Artana explained as she drew in the dirt of their small clearing. "About a mile away. With the sun setting, the hills will be difficult to look at from their camp and provide the best vantage to see into it. Ives and I will start here," she pointed at a convenient pebble which represented the clearing itself, "and make our way to the west side of the hills, taking out any scouts along the way quietly. Jean, how long until the sun sets?"

Jean glanced up at the sky, gauging the position of the sun. "Perhaps thirty minutes, no more."

Artana nodded. Jean's sense of time and geography had not failed them yet, and Ives knew it would not fail them now. "That gives us enough time to get into place. When the sun touches the horizon, Jean and Isabeau will ride from the southern edge of their camp and engage as many as possible. Livilla, bolster their armor with as much protection as you can. I want to ensure they maintain the attention of the bandits long enough for us to fire several volleys."

Livilla nodded. "I presume I'm to remain otherwise out of reach?"

"We can't risk our only mage. You may use your own discretion if they have an apostate among them." Artana looked up. "You have your orders." With a firm nod, everyone stood and broke, hurrying to their appointed tasks.

Ives followed Artana after swiping his foot across the 'battle plan', just in case an errant bandit scout came across their path too soon. Twice Artana stopped him as they moved through the wooded terrain to their designated spot, though only once did she fire at a target he had barely registered as movement before her arrow found its mark. The poor bandit's body was quickly dragged into the underbrush and covered with a few branches and leaves before they moved forward again.

They reached their destination with scarcely a few minutes to spare, and Ives performed one more silent check of his weapon before stilling completely. He was waiting for a commotion in the camp to signal the warriors' arrival while Artana watched the sun like a hawk, arrow nocked and ready, her chest still with calm breaths.

When the shouts began, followed shortly by the deliberate sound of hooves that could only be called a _charge_, Ives and Artana rose from their place and began to fire against the bandits. It was a controlled frenzy, staring down from an ideal vantage and firing as swiftly as their weapons could reload and their eyes settle on the next target. As in previous such battles, Artana, her archery skills honed by ten years of pushing herself to the limits of her ability, stayed in place and targeted those bandits who were close in combat with their fellow Grey Wardens, minimizing danger of friendly fire. Knowing he held no candle to her, Ives stood and moved over the hill so he could focus his attacks on those more distant from the main melee, sparing only a brief glance to the cloud of dust and steel to check on their wellbeing.

Just as with Artana, his shots were placed with care: disable if possible, kill only if necessary. Though the latter was sometimes inevitable, he worked his way carefully along the northern side of the camp, using his crossbow to pick away at the enemies. Such reluctance to kill used far more bolts than if he simply shot them in the head, but even the strongest and most ox-like of enemies eventually got the message to _stay down_ with enough bolts sticking out of him. He preferred to fell them like that, at a safe distance from being directly engaged. This time it wasn't just preference, either. Even here, in the midst of the battle, he was dreadfully aware of the absence of his daggers at his hip. _I should acquire some daggers in the next town, even if they are not my preferred type. I suppose I should have done so before leaving Val Royeaux... _He shook his head. He had been a bit... _distracted._

He paused when he reached the gorge, taking his time to load another bolt into his crossbow as he gauged how the main fight was proceeding. A frown came to his lips when he saw that Jean and Isabeau had been separated from each other, their horses forced apart. He immediately saw the problem: two of the bandits had polearms. Isabeau's mare, though sturdy and well trained, was no war horse, and kept shying away from thrusts of the gleaming weapon. At the same time, Isabeau dared not dismount lest she be overwhelmed by those on the ground. Ives saw that Artana was trying to feather the bandits with the longer weapons, but they were either lucky or cleverly disrupting the Commander's vantage by putting Isabeau's horse between them and her. Worse yet, even Livilla was unable to help assail them as they were too close to attack with magic without the risk of hitting Isabeau as well.

Ives frowned as he took all this in. He was no use to Isabeau at range either, so he sheathed his crossbow to aid mobility and began to jog towards the cluster of men around the horse. Though he had no idea how he might help besides to draw attention and run them away from Isabeau, there was an urgency in the need to _try_. Jean was doing his best to rejoin Isabeau, he could see that clearly, but Ebony was likewise surrounded by enemies, making it difficult to intervene. Try as she might, the young warrior was losing ground with her nervous horse. It wasn't simply that the mare's eyes were wider and wider with fear every jab, but also that she was backing closer and closer to the edge of the gorge. Just as Ives threw aside the caution of his jog to break into a run, one of the bandits pressed forward, shoving the end of his poleax directly at the now skittish mare's face.

Though in the long, _long_ moments that followed the bandit fell to the ground with a Dalish arrow in his head, the damage was done. The mare reared, out of control and lashing out wildly against those in front of her, and took that one fatal step too far back.

Ives cried out and rushed forward the last few feet, ignoring the arrow that picked off another of the bandits - just as he'd ignored whatever he cursed, and the sword swung at him. There was no thought as he frantically grabbed at the mare's reins, perhaps hoping that as her hooves skidded and scrabbled on the uneven ground at the lip of the gorge he would somehow provide the purchase she needed to recover. The reality was that it was futile, an empty gesture of desperation of a man refusing to stand by and do nothing when a friend was in danger. The inexorable pull of the horse's weight carried him forward, feet digging into the ground, as the horse, neighing with its own terror, twisted and fell over the edge of the gorge - taking Isabeau with her.

Ives felt the reins jerked from his hands, the pain so immediate he suspected at least one dislocated finger. It hurt, far beyond a description like _stinging _or _burning_, but his instincts did not allow him to stop. He hit the ground at the lip of the gorge, wide eyes taking in what they could. At the bottom he saw only a dark mass of plants and vegetation at the base of a sheer drop. _Too far to jump._ With a curse he glanced around, trying to find Isabeau, but saw only the now weakly struggling mare, only two of her legs moving as she tried to right herself. Ives winced, knowing that the horse was done for.

"_Chérie!"_ he called, hoping desperately for an answer, all thoughts of the fight behind him forgotten. Without pausing to further consider his actions, lest he actually realize how reckless a feat it was, Ives swung himself over the edge, looking for handholds with all the expertise of a master thief, finding chinks and crevices he could use to descend as quickly as possible. About halfway down the cliff face, the stone crumbled beneath his hands. Time grew slow again and he felt his stomach clench as he fell backwards, the knowledge of _how to fall_ helping his body reflexively curl into as compact a bundle as he could manage in anticipation of the impact.

The breath was knocked out of him as he hit the ground. It could have been much worse without a blend of skill and sheer luck, both combined helping him to land in such a way as to be battered but not broken. Once recovered from the abrupt dispersion of air from his lungs, Ives rolled to his feet, weaving slightly as he oriented himself. As he searched the rapidly darkening bottom of the gorge he called again, "Isabeau!"

"Here," he heard a strained response, and he almost sobbed with relief as he headed towards the sound.

She was quite a ways beyond the poor horse, a fact for which Ives was grateful: it meant the mare hadn't landed on her. She was sunk so deeply into the surprisingly lush ground cover of the gorge's bottom that her back was wet from the creek hidden beneath the green, her sword and shield laying about ten feet away. He knelt next to her, gently taking her hand into his as he reached out and brushed some errant leaves and strands of hair away from her face. Her eyes were a bit glassy, and his questing fingers found a nasty lump on her head. "Ah, Isabeau, poor thing," he said softly.

"P-pushed away from her," she managed. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and her face was drawn into a grimace of pain. "Rhea... Rhea, is she-?"

"_Shh, shh," _Ives said soothingly. "Let us worry about you first, _non?"_ He grew frustrated with trying to soothe her with a hand stinging and too swollen to cooperate, so he shifted and repositioned to use his other hand instead. "I have one of Artana's potions. Let's start there." The bump was bad. He began to hum, pushing his bardic ability to its limit to energize her and stave off the draw of sleep. Meanwhile he dug for that potion he had promised, a bright red blend of elfroot and a concentrator agent, distilled and distilled until it thickened. Artana had the touch for creating such things, but he ... well, all he could do was administer them. He stopped humming as he did so, his own purple and fattened finger only grabbing his attention as he wondered how precisely he'd be getting them back up the gorge considering the injury. He glanced again to the miserable horse, its pain having immobilized it, and up to try and guess the distance back to the top. _Too far_ was the final determination made by his mind.

When the vial was empty he looked back down and discarded the glass so he could use both hands to massage her throat, helping her to swallow it down so the healing properties could hurry on into her body. "Does anything else hurt but your head?"

"L-leg hurt at first, but not n-now," she whispered. "Just c-cold." Her hand tightened around his slightly. "And sleepy." In the distance, the sounds of battle continued, even as the light continued to dim.

"Well, I'm warm, and we're going to talk so that you are in fact not sleepy," he persisted, shifting and carefully moving his hands to unbuckle the latches of her armor. Ives was almost certain this wouldn't work. He wasn't a warrior himself. He couldn't carry her with all the extra weight of leather and steel. Yet he still looked up and down the gorge whenever he didn't need to give his hands attention from his eyes, trying to see which way was a shorter trek towards any kind of incline. Ives was still going to try. "Now, then, we'll just have to come back for all of this... once I get the rest off. I think I may have to shed a bit of mine as well. Perhaps our next descent could be with ropes, though. _Oui?_"

"Who will help you with yours? It's so heavy." She yawned, blinking blearily at him, but her voice seemed a bit stronger as she focused on him. "Is Ebony all right? How did you get down here, anyway?"

Ives' brow furrowed, but he decided it best not to further confuse her. If she believed him to be Jean, then Jean he could be. "I'll manage," he insisted. "Ebony is up top. Does asking questions help you to stay awake? You may ask as many as you wish if that is true."

"Do I have to stay awake?" She yawned again, then winced and put a hand to her head. "Oh, my head." She squinted at him. "Those rings around your neck. They were your marriage rings? With Cateline? They're quite beautiful."

That was his Warden's pendant and nothing more, of course, but Ives knew full well that _Jean _kept his wedding bands on the matching chain of his own. "You absolutely must stay awake," he confirmed in a firm, _Jean-like_ tone of voice, emulating his brother as best as he could. Any temptation which threatened his sworn love to Artana was against the values he'd been trained - _brainwashed, _if Ives were asked his opinion on the matter - to uphold to the death as a Chevalier. Unlike the vast majority of his peers, he truly did strive to uphold them beyond the public eye, too. "Both bands. Mine on the right, hers on the left, so it is closer to my heart and couldn't possibly be lost during battle. Our family own a number of mines for gold and silver, and we keep the finest jewelers and artisans in our pockets. Did you know that? These rings were crafted particularly to Cateline's taste." _And to fit her... ah, _sturdy f_ingers which Jean loved oh-so-well. How fortunate I still know my brother as myself._

"Oh, that's so sweet. You don't mind talking about her, do you? I'll admit I am ever so curious." A scream echoed from the top of the gorge, and Isabeau's brow furrowed. "Will they be all right, do you think?"

"Worry yourself about our conversation. That scream most certainly did not belong to one of ours." He had her weight down enough, but he was still concerned about the trek. "Here, hold against this," he said, hefting a stick to her, giving her something to leverage against. "Ask me something else. Please, about Cateline, if that is where your curiosity lies." Meanwhile, he swiftly worked the buckles of his own leathers and quiver, intent to leave both behind.

She latched onto the stick, leaning her head onto it as she closed her eyes. "The children must miss her," she said quietly. "I know what it's like to lose a mother so young." A shiver shook her body, and she struggled not to fall. "And so horrible for you. I saw the love my parents had for each other. I can't imagine one living without the other. Oh!" She opened her eyes and stared at him. "I'm sorry, I- That was rather tactless. I'm sorry, Jean."

He noticed her eyes close, but he was half out of his chest piece and couldn't reach her. Just as he was about to reach out and pinch her, she shook herself awake, but he rushed his efforts all the same. "Sympathy? Tactless? Perish the thought. You're right, it was a challenge. For the longest, I was unable to even rest my eyes overlong on a woman. If any redemption, I can say the tragedy led me to the Chant."

"Artana is fortunate," Isabeau mumbled, eyes looking downward before her lids sagged shut again. Ives wondered if she had meant to say the words aloud at all, but before he could inquire, she murmured, "I don't know the Chant that well. Mother used to read it to me each night, but after she was killed, nobody read it to me anymore."

"Well, on a better night, you should ask me to read it for you," Ives blurted before he could even think better of it. The guilt welled immediately, so brazenly leading her to ask something of Jean that he would _enjoy_ sharing. "Here, up we go," he said, finally prepared to lift her. His muscles weren't so solid as Jean's, but they were still _there_, and he was going to test them today. Containing the heave as best he could, Ives carefully maneuvered Isabeau into his arms and forced himself to his feet. If only he knew better how to cycle his breathing. "_There_ we go," he strained, sucking in another breath. Oh, how he wished he had his brother's strength! "Now... keep talking to me. Do you miss the training we did at the Keep?" _Ives,_ he scolded himself harshly, though he had no one to blame for opening his mouth but himself.

"At this exact moment?" Isabeau asked, a hint of a rueful smile on her face. "I wish we had done more training, especially with horses. It seems t'me there's not 'nough time in th' day lately." The slur in her voice didn't escape Ives' notice, and he pushed himself towards what he hoped was uphill, out of the gorge. It was brutally difficult not to trip or slip, the tangles of roots or the wet mud and pebbles of the creek fighting against him every slow, cautious step. The sounds of fighting had finally faded above, but he still preferred to get Isabeau to Livilla as soon as possible. "I do miss our sessions... our swords dance well togeth- togeth-" She frowned, and her hand rose, fingers touching her lips.

"I can understand you. Let's try the next thing, hm?" Ives asked, his voice yet again straining, more than just a touch. "What sort of training do you wish you could - could do?" He paused long enough to take a couple of breaths, then pressed on. For all he wanted to hurry, he had to be slow. He wouldn't even have known he was going upwards if not for the burning in his calves, and each step had to be preceded with a cautious tap of his toe. It was too dark to get a good sense of his footing. "You - you have to be direct with me, _non_? I'm very shy with beautiful women."

The hand that had risen to grasp his tunic tightened as her lips parted in a soft gasp. "Oh! I... You..." She looked away. "You've... never put it quite that way before." After a moment, she turned back to him, eyes narrowed slightly. "You aren't shy around Artana. I suppose it would get in the way, wouldn't it?"

He was empathetic enough to know she wasn't sure what to think of his compliment, but aside from the discomfort, he was too preoccupied to seek more depth to the reaction. Perhaps his elven princess had even heard him, for just as the darkness was getting truly overwhelming, fire rained from the sky to light their way. Flame-tipped arrows, landing in intervals of a few feet up the closest thing to a path they had. While undeniably a great benefit , it was also making him realize how much further he had to go. Deciding to focus instead on how he was supposed to be Jean, Ives said, "Chevalric codes and ... the Chantry's teachings allow but one beauty at a time." After sucking a deep breath through his nose, he added, "Since Cateline's passing, I am quite entangled in both those lifestyles."

"Oh, of- of course. I understand." Her hand latched onto his tunic, but lightly, as another yawn emerging from her mouth. "Ah, you asked about p-practice. When I was young, Papa... Papa would wake me up 'fore the sun, to practice being a l-lady. I... I think I'd like t'do the s-same for w-weapons."

Ives was beginning to fret over just how much blood might be pooling under that nasty bump. Her words were labored and her eyelids were closed more often than not. "You should hold to that desire and be sure to leap upon the opportunity," he forced, his throat now dry and adding to the labor of his words. They had been climbing, but he wasn't sure of their actual position, nor their proximity to the others. The urgency was rising, but he had no second wind left to give. It was a tense, hopeless feeling of mounted anxiety that did not pair well with his exhaustion. "Just a little longer, _chèrie._ You wouldn't want the surprise of a kiss to... wake you, hm?" _He_ could use the surprise of reinforcements at this point. What had he been thinking, jumping over a cliff? Of course, to only have a broken finger for his trouble, he couldn't complain. It was his own fault that he was precisely the sort of impulsive fool that would do something like that.

Small blessings, at least - at the word _kiss_, her eyes popped open, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. "Wh-what did you say?"

Just at that moment, even more light blossomed around them, and Ives looked forward to see Livilla standing not fifty paces ahead of him. There was also a shadow causing quite a ruckus as he shuffled down the gravel to meet Ives near the top. Her staff was the source of luminescence, and her face was pinched with fear when she saw them. "Ives! Thank Dirthamen!" She hurried towards them, Jean's clanking presence finally making more sense when not backlit.

"I-Ives?" Isabeau faltered, just before her eyes rolled up into her head. Her body went completely limp, dangling in Ives' weakening but desperate grasp.

Taking charge of the situation, Livilla told him crisply, "Put her down."

"She has quite the nasty knock on her skull," Ives told Livilla. "Can you-?" He was both reluctant to set her down and desperate to do so, wilting like a lavender flower in the scorching sun, and stuck in an uncertain limbo without a forthcoming answer to a question he hadn't actually had the breath to ask. Jean helped him, taking her in his arms and easing her down to the ground while Ives doubled over to try and catch his breath.

"I'll see what I can do," Livilla assured him as she knelt next to the still woman. Her hands quickly went to Isabeau's head, her black eye turning white even as she closed it. "The fact she was still awake mere seconds ago is a good sign. I just hope-" Her voice trailed away, her brow furrowing as her hands began to glow the pure white that had appeared when Livilla had helped ease Isabeau's Joining all those months ago.

Ives waited tensely, peripherally aware of Jean coming to stand at his side now that Isabeau was still on the ground. Having taken away her armor and the better part of his own, Ives half expected a lecture about indecency, even despite the circumstances. Jean was downright militant about his beliefs, and Ives was the first to accuse him (inwardly, at least) of insecurity. "Could you take her after this?" he pleaded, hoping that - just maybe - he was wrong.

"Ah, if it is required." Jean _did_ look red, and he was most certainly uncomfortable, but perhaps the urgency of the situation had earned Ives a pass from reprimand. He cared for Isabeau, if not as more than a friend, and surely seeing her in such a state was more important than her undress.

In fact, so long as Ives didn't tell his brother that he hadn't taken the time to offer the dying horse mercy, he even hoped he might get out of this all without a lecture from anyone. Ah, but such was his life, to receive the reprimands of others - or at least, that's how it felt right now. He was certainly more accomplished in the realm of words and music than in physical feats. Certainly, in a different context he could lift a woman in his lap a moderate distance - repeatedly, if appropriate to the activity - but carrying someone, even a _much shorter_ someone, _that _distance, _uphill, _with a _broken finger,_ had taken its toll on his body. In short, he was miserable, and when Ives had been able to hand Isabeau off to Jean, he had done so all too gladly.

Yet Ives was still concerned enough that he lingered, waiting the several breathless minutes it took until Isabeau's eyes fluttered open before allowing himself a sigh of relief. The pain of fatigue had slowly drained from his leaden legs as he waited, a fatigue that seemed well worth the effort when Isabeau smiled weakly at Livilla. As great a relief as the sight was, it also tickled him when a light blush came to her cheeks as soon as Isabeau laid eyes on Jean. A tired chuckle escaped from the bard's lips when her brow furrowed and she asked, "How did you get your armor back on so quickly?"

The warrior's puzzled confusion was priceless. Ah, if only he knew! Well, perhaps _Ives'_ skull was only intact because he didn't. Livilla ignored it entirely, though, interrupting before Jean could speak. "Your head, how does it feel?" Her hands were working in Isabeau's hair, carefully feeling their way around beneath it.

"Hurts," Isabeau murmured, but her hand, when it moved, went to her leg, kneading and massaging. "And... I can't feel them." This time there was a tinge of fear in her voice, and Livilla's brow instantly drew into a frown.

Taking her hands quickly from Isabeau's head, Livilla leaned down and pushed her arms underneath Isabeau. "The old injury, I suspect." Her eye blazed white as she closed it and curtly ordered, "Don't move."

Ives exchanged a glance with Jean, his concern mirrored perfectly in his brother's face. It was Jean who knelt next to them, hand gently encompassing Isabeau's as a line furrowed his brow. "Old injury?" he asked softly.

"Childhood injury." Livilla's answer was just this side of curt as she shifted a bit to relocate her hands.

"Isabeau?" Jean asked softly.

After a brief glance at Livilla, Isabeau looked up at Jean with a wan smile. "My back was badly hurt when- when I fell as a child. I- It took a long time to heal." She gasped suddenly, and Ives saw her hand tighten around Jean's. "My toes- I can feel them again."

"That should do for now. It's badly bruised, but nothing is broken," Livilla said crisply as she took her hands out from under Isabeau, opening her eye to show black once more. "I'll need to look at it again once you have a bed, but for now I'm more worried about that head of yours." She looked at Jean. "I don't want her sitting in a saddle quite yet. Will you carry her to Arlesans?" Her hand settled on Isabeau's forehead as she bowed her head, concentrating.

It sounded like Isabeau would recover. With that knowledge, Ives felt secure enough to leave Jean alone with the girls to aid them. He stood, stretched carefully, and _cautiously_ forced his legs into motion. While he was sure they couldn't stay for the night, he needed to rest before he could even wrap his mind around climbing into a saddle. When he reached the small tree where Carrot had been hitched, he drew the bed roll off the horse's back, bringing it down with him to the grassy ground below.

It wasn't until several moments after he'd flattened out on his stomach and curled his arm around the bedroll that he even registered what he had seen. At first he peeked an eye, and then he finally raised his head again enough to confirm it: everything he'd left at the bottom of the gorge, both his own and Isabeau's equipment, was now in the pack on Carrot's back or at his feet. How Martin had been able to accomplish this... Ives shook his head, thoughts fogged, and gave up trying to figure it out. _Later..._

Even more disturbing was what had been _added:_ a pair of daggers sheathed together in one clip, artistically designed to be two halves of a whole. Ives had once owned a similar pair, but Martin had had taken them after the dance. _Ah, lala, apparently Martin had plans._ They were beautiful, exquisite, even, but they were _certainly_ not the ones he had once owned. _Artana and Jean would notice, and they would want to know from whence they came. _With a sigh of regret, Ives quickly buried them deep in his pack, then closed it firmly.

A note was pinned to the flap of his bag. With a frown, Ives reached out to tear the note from its pin. After the last several pictures, he was almost disappointed to see that on it were simply words, inscribed with an elegant hand.

_I am most disappointed. Apparently I did not make myself clear. We shall discuss the matter when next we meet._

He stared at the note, remembering all too well Martin's initial instructions to 'protect his angel' or suffer the consequences. Yet if he were close enough to gather the equipment, why had he not stepped in himself? Was it an aspect of his Game, or a mere circumstance of timing? Did Martin have magic at his disposal? Ives had no idea how closely Martin followed them, or if he had been distracted elsewhere in the battle, or if he had even chosen to participate. He hardly knew anything, save that he had more questions than answers.

Whatever the cause for Martin's apparent lack of intervention, it was proof that the man had indeed followed them... and that he was _watching._

"Ives?" He craned his neck to find Livilla standing nearby. "Isabeau is resting comfortably, so I thought to heal your injuries."

"Hmm? Oh, yes, my finger." It wasn't that it had stopped hurting, of course, merely that he'd blocked that pain out in favor of what had to be done. "How simply loutish of me to have forgotten, _mon fleur._" Though he wished nothing more than to stay off of his feet, he eased himself from sitting to standing. Once he had accomplished that monumental feat, he offered his hand to her, bracing himself for the magic to wash over him.

Livilla stepped forward, taking his hand in her own. As her eye turned white and the chill invaded his body, she said softly, "Was the note from _him?"_

After a moment's hesitation, he chuckled wearily. "Sneak."

"Lout." Her eye dimmed to black as she lightly traced the line of his now healthy digit. "He's been in our camp at least twice so far," she murmured. "This much I know. I simply do not know what he _wants. _I sometimes wonder if he knows himself, or if he can want anything that his Master does not tell him to want. Still, there is little we can do at the moment to deal with him." With a shrug she dismissed Martin, her head craning to look behind her. "Isabeau's injuries are extensive, but she is stable. A good night's rest and more healing in the morning will set her to rights, but the loss of her horse will slow us down. Hopefully Arlesans will have at least one decent horse for sale."

Ives winced. The poor horse, as far as he knew, had not been put out of its misery, and he knew he would tend to that first, now that Livilla had revived him a bit. Still, its loss was certainly the lesser of the two he had faced. "Isabeau's armor was also damaged by the fall. We'll need a smith to sort it out, I think. Did Artana snatch everything of value in sight?"

Livilla's mouth twitched in a smile. "Less than she would have liked. One less horse means less hauling capacity."

"Ah, my poor, larcenous _amour! _Unable to acquire items at her mere whim!" A grin was on his lips as Ives turned and left his comfortable recline to the past. His tasks were clearly not yet done, no matter _how_ he yearned to simply lie down and do nothing for a while. All the equipment Martin had left on the ground he began piling on Carrot. "Ah, well, at least we should have sufficient money for supplies, horse, and armor repair from what she _is_ able to carry - not to mention the very best of the dubious inns which Arlesans is sure to offer."

"We'll see," Livilla said. "Jean and Isabeau are settled on Ebony, and Jean's armor is distributed between my horse and Artana's. Artana is doing a last sweep for small valuables, and then we will go."

Taking up Carrot's reins, Ives fell into step beside Livilla as she turned to lead the way back to the others. "Isabeau will be fine, though?" he persisted.

The hesitation made him look sharply at her face, but it showed no anxiety. When she spoke, it was in a slow, thoughtful tone. "I would have preferred a single scope of injury - head or back alone - to concentrate upon, but as it is, her head is in the clear, and her back is... sufficiently healed." Her gaze fell to her hands, and it was a moment before she continued. "She sustained her injury in her youth the day her parents died, and it left her unable to walk for years. Yet she never gave up." Her eye flicked up to meet Ives' gaze. "She is one of the strongest people I know, Ives Durante. She will be fine." Her hand reached out and squeezed Ives' free hand briefly before retreating when she turned from him. "Make haste. I want to reach Arlesans sooner rather than later."

_She would have to be strong,_ Ives mused. _She survived Martin's oppressive attention all those years and emerged still able to blush at a compliment from a man she admires. Strong, yes: much stronger than most would think to look at her._ "She is a warrior, _non? _Whether she wields a weapon or a ... a needle, she is a fighter."

"I know," Livilla said quietly. "And she has not yet lost a battle."

"And a lively battle it would be, if she fought with a needle." Any further conversation was reduced to an apologetic smile when Artana called for Ives. "Coming, _amour!"_ Handing Carrot off to Livilla, he hurried as swiftly as his aching legs would allow to first check the gorge. This time he trotted down the fire-arrow-lit path rather than jump off the ledge, not wishing to risk another damaged finger. He found that the horse's struggles had ceased, a clean cut across her throat explaining the reason why. His brow furrowed, and he glanced around quickly. _Martin, perhaps?_ Curious that such as he would think to put an animal from its misery.

As Ives turned from the horse, a flicker of movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he looked at it, freezing when he saw a figure dressed in black standing further down the gorge. For a moment their eyes met, and even at this distance, Ives could see the cold rage in Martin's face. After a few silent moments, without a word or further action, the man turned and melted into the shadows.

Ives let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. _Ah, lala, suddenly more than my body is exhausted. I hope not every day is like this. I am far too fragile! _

"Ives!"

He jumped, admittedly, when Artana called to him, looking up to where Artana stood at the lip of the gorge, the smile very much forced onto his lips. _"Oui, amour?"_

"We are leaving. Livilla wants to get Isabeau to a bed as quickly as possible."

"Of course." Quickly he scurried back out of the gorge and headed towards Carrot. Once on his steed's back, he took up the rear of the party, Artana leading the way with a glowstone held up to light their way in the dark. Ives glanced at the sky, relieved to see no clouds covering the stars. With those visible, Artana would be able to easily take them to Arlesans.

As he grew closer to his brother's large black war horse, he heard the murmur of voices. Curiosity piqued, he spurred Carrot forward a bit more until he could hear them talking. Isabeau's voice sounded a touch dazed still, and Jean's bore that forced lightness he used when he wished to put others at ease. _Ah, but of course, he is as concerned as I for the little chérie._ And, perhaps, a _smidgen_ more, despite his self-proclaimed Chevalric honor...

"Such a beautiful name. Cateline." Isabeau was so very curious about Jean's dear departed wife that it tickled Ives, easily bringing a smile to his face. "Was it _coup de foudre?_ For you, I mean."

"Ah... love at first sight is a ... is a strong sensation, and perhaps it is ... not so strong as a slap," Jean said sheepishly, and Ives raised a hand to cover a snort of laughter. It earned him a glare, but Jean was undaunted. "She was ... beautiful. Not in the way Artana commands attention and grasps you with her mysterious nature, but … just, so … _easily_ attractive. A year my senior. Her dowry had been refused by another suitor, but it made no difference to me. When first we met I approached her in a ... most inappropriate way. I was a different man then, and her beauty was so ... so easy." Ives saw the struggle Jean had with his words, and heard the frustrated noise before he tried again after a shake of his head. "That... makes no sense. I mean to say, she needed no adornment. Just to smile, and I would stop whatever I was doing to look."

"A woman of rare worth," Isabeau murmured. After a deep breath, she began to chant a verse, one Ives had heard before, though never from Isabeau: "_'A woman of beauty unadorned, a woman of heart pure as gold. A woman of love and light so fair, that all the bards sang of her of old.'"_

Ives urged Carrot forward a bit. "Not the first time I have heard that," he said, inserting himself into the conversation. "A certain lout you know once used that very same verse to describe a beloved sister-in-law, _non?"_

As Jean's chuckle answered that comment, a thought struck Ives, solidly enough to make him lose track of the conversation for a moment. A sudden vision emphasized the parallel between his clumsy attempts to keep Isabeau awake by emulating Jean and, all those years ago, donning his brother's armor to sing a love song in Jean's guise for Cateline. _I've done it once before, after all,_ he thought wryly.

Though too tired to do more than smile wanly at the connection, he did have to wonder if Isabeau mistaking him for Jean was more than a simple misunderstanding brought on by a bump on her head. _Desire to see me that way? Apparently I am better at courting women as Jean Durante than you are. Well, no surprise there, really. _And now, Isabeau had invoked a verse to describe Cateline, but Ives could not help but wonder if Jean saw that the verse applied to Isabeau herself.

He broke from his reverie, hearing Jean as he said, "-gave me her ribbon as a favor. I was certain, a man of seventeen and no doubts in anything, that I could win the joust at one of the Empress' banquets. I do not know if I would have, but the lance caught me in the arm."

"And like a sparkling, divine spirit, when he woke from his pained, fevered sleep, she was above him, weeping demurely-" Ives broke in, attempting to provide the appropriate level of embellishment.

Jean coughed. "Mm, no. Again, she hit me when I first woke, and scolded me for being foolish. You know that, brother."

"Sounds like I would have liked her," Isabeau said with approval. "A woman should always be willing to correct a man's mistakes and explain to him why _she_ never makes any."

Ives chuckled as Jean laughed. A movement caught his attention, and he saw Livilla watching them, perhaps to monitor Isabeau's status as they got closer to the town. _Not long now,_ Ives hoped fervently. _We were not that far out from the town when we found the trail of the bandits. The best place to catch weary travellers, and just out of the law's reach._

Isabeau sighed, letting her head fall against Jean's shoulder. "Mother and Father were like that," she murmured softly. "The room would just light up when they looked at each other. They were so happy..." She yawned. "Someday, I'd like that..."

Ives could not help but wonder what was going through his brother's mind at the moment. Judging from the way Jean was looking down at his little passenger, it had certainly grabbed his attention, if nothing else.

"My mother always used to sing that verse to me when I went to sleep," Isabeau continued, voice losing strength. "I liked the second part, too. It was my father to me, you see: _A man of honor perfectly sure, a man with a heart of steel pure. A man to protect and hold you close, that all he loved would feel assured."_ She yawned again. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to..."

Her voice trailed away in mid-sentence, and her head tipped back slightly.

Jean frowned and looked at Livilla, a crease between his brows. "Is it... all right to let her sleep?"

"She is no longer in danger due to the injury on her head," Livilla assured him. "It is her back I am concerned about, and that requires rest and more healing once I am able."

Ives frowned and scrutinized Livilla. In the dim light of Artana's glowstone, he couldn't see if she was more pale than usual, but the fact she had even admitted she _couldn't_ do something was cause for concern. "Are you feeling weak?"

"We should concentrate on getting to town," Livilla said, looking forward. "I'm sure some rest will benefit us all a great deal."

"Ah, lala, that is most certainly one of the truer things I have heard this night," Ives chuckled. For a few moments, he contented himself with watching the way Jean's glance would dart down to Isabeau and then snap back up, landing on Artana's back. _Hmm, did we feel the flap of a hummingbird's wings tonight, _mon frère_?_ After a while, however, he frowned and nudged Carrot to the head of the pack. "Artana... you've... been quiet."

"I have." Artana agreed. "I have no resentment for Jean's mate. I am inspired by his demeanor when considering her passing. I am not threatened by a memory... I am just..."

"_Amour,_ you don't have to say it. I'm sure he's watching you as well," Ives spoke quietly, trying to comfort her. Few outside of Artana's closest circle knew the circumstances of her Joining the Wardens, much less her life prior to it. Jean and he were privy to more than any other, of course, including the first man in Artana's life, the one she had loved... the one she had, in her own mind, abandoned.

Thus it was a surprise when Livilla spoke up in a quiet tone that nevertheless carried. "Do not return to that moment, Commander. It does neither you nor his memory any honor to dwell upon regret." She nodded towards Jean. "As he said of Cateline: celebrate the memory, celebrate the meaning. Life is too precious to waste on regret."

And she spoke no more. For a while, no one did.


	11. Calm Before the Storm

_Many thanks to our fantastic beta reader, ShebasDawn!_

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**Chapter Eleven: Calm Before the Storm  
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Ives pushed the door to the inn open, a wave of heat and sound welcoming him into the interior. Though it claimed to be the best inn within the boundaries of Arlesans, it was still rather inadequate by his standards. The common room was dark and smoky, the floor was covered in rushes that were changed irregularly, and he'd had to knock a few heads together after their owners had made certain comments about the 'knife-ear' while Artana arranged for their rooms, though he'd only done so because she had been too busy to take care of them personally. Still the beds were clean, the food better than expected, and the inn had enough rooms to give them all their own privacy so that Isabeau could rest properly.

Well... _four _rooms, at any rate. It was up to Artana which of the twins had a bed to themselves, and Ives had already put his own belongings in the room with the smaller bed. Perhaps he could have given more of a fight or even suggested Jean convince _her _to request Ives' company, but Ives knew it wasn't so simple. Though Ives had no feelings for Isabeau beyond those of the best of friends and comrades in arms, he had nevertheless _jumped over a cliff_ for her - in the middle of a battle, no less - and carried her uphill in the dark. While Artana would probably have punished _Jean _with such an action by ravishing him thoroughly and laying claim, she had long since learned the best silent reprimand for _Ives _was a cold bed.

As he crossed the common room, he caught sight of Livilla out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting at a table close to the fireplace, a seat too warm for most patrons. With a mug between her hands, she seemed perfectly content to simply watch the diverse patrons in the room with her single eye. Veering to join her, Ives heaved a huge sigh as he settled himself into a chair next to her.

"And why so great a sigh, lout? Does it have something to do with our sleeping arrangements? Are you pining for your princess already?" Calmly she raised her mug and sipped at the contents, her eye returning to survey the room. "Maybe she'll let you sleep on a blanket at the foot of the bed."

"Ah, but I would gladly bay at the moon in her name! Come to think of it, on some occasions, I've had to scratch behind my ears for her. Or, well, because of where she'd dragged me." He shuddered, clearly thinking of some manner of louse just by the theatrics that followed. Ives grimaced, rubbing his arms and scratching his head before finally moving beyond it. "However, I digress, as in _this_ case, I have just returned from the blacksmith, and it was destined not to be my night with him, either. The smith had already cooled his forge, and no matter what I promised he refused to relight it. He did agree, however - after much persuasion and coin - to move her armor to the top of his list tomorrow, but it will not be a simple job. So we are stuck here another day and, more than likely, night - and that is assuming I can find a suitable mount for Isabeau tomorrow, as well." He slid down in the seat, slouching enough to rest his feet on the chair across from them. "I don't suppose you're in the mood for a more serious discussion, by chance?"

"How serious?" Her eyebrow rose eloquently. From this perspective, with the light behind her and the flames dancing across her face, she appeared more shadowed than scarred. It was easier to see the underlying bone structure rather than the damage done to the flesh, and her empty socket simply looked... closed, not as if it were lacking something within. "Will we need privacy?"

"I can't imagine the topic I wish to discuss would mean a thing to anyone here. At least, not one who would scarcely care a fig towards our efforts at privacy, _non_? So, I say, here is that very one's most recent gift to me. Well, not to _me_, per say, but - bah, sometimes words are not needed." He produced the amulet that was much akin to hers, save for the varied paw on its silver face. "I've touched it at least twice, so I don't believe it harmful. It does like to growl, if admitting so doesn't bring into question my sanity."

Her eye widened, and she reached for it quickly, pausing for but a moment before touching it. "Please tell me Artana didn't touch it," she said quietly, glancing around as if to make sure the Dalish woman wasn't nearby.

"No, but why? I've kept it to myself, actually. Would it have... harmed her?" With his brow furrowed, he eagerly awaited clarification. He could handle the shrapnel of Martin's game, but he didn't want anyone - particularly not Artana - to take a shard in his name.

"Not physically, no, but it could have _influenced_ her. Possibly. It's... Well, it's an amulet of one of the gods of the Dalish. She probably wouldn't have touched it if she saw the mark, honestly." Carefully she placed it on table before her, staring at it intently. "Martin stole this from me the first time we... met." Her mouth twisted. "Have you seen his face? Have you seen that lovely scar at the corner of his mouth? That was _my _gift to him, when he stole this. These two amulets and I were taken from my people by the Magisters, and I managed to escape with both of them, thanks to a little help." She glanced around the room, obviously hesitant, and bit her lip. "Perhaps... a bit more privacy. I feel odd talking about some things when too many shadows are about."

"As you wish, _chèrie._ Where do you feel is safe?" Ives popped from his chair without a complaint, then dipped behind hers to help pull it out before she could manage it on her own. "I admit I'm all atingle with curiosity now."

Without a word, she took his hand and led the way, throwing glances over her shoulder. "My room should be nice and bright - I had them build the fire to its height." When she reached a door with a bright line of light showing through the crack under it, she opened it and pushed him in. Thanks to the large fire in the fireplace, her room was indeed day-bright, the shadows kept as far away as possible. Slipping in behind him, Livilla shut the door, then placed her hand on it. A small pulse of blue rippled over the wood as she turned to Ives. "Since he's following us, I'd prefer to take extra precaution rather than simply _hope_ he is not interested at the moment_._"

Ives glanced towards the door and mentally extended the view to his room. Wrapped up in his bedroll were the exquisitely wrought daggers Martin had so pointedly left for him _again_ after the battle with the bandits. For Martin to have come up with a pair of such rare design _and_ found a way to make them _superior_ to the ones replaced, questions were most certainly being raised. "Oh, I find him relatively harmless, depending on his mood," Ives supposed, looking back again at Livilla. "Not that I've often seen him, of course. Perhaps he just had a little free time on an ... errand, or whatever it is he does. I try not to let it bother me, honestly - it's the only _immediate_ power he has over us. So, the amulets?"

Her eye narrowed as she regarded him, mouth settling into a compressed line. Finally, with a tight shrug, she shook her head and walked to the bed. "Fine. The amulets." Taking out the amulet she'd tucked into her pocket, she held it up and dangled it by the cord. The faintest hint of wind whispered through the room. "Do you know what animal this mark represents?"

Ives grinned. "Ah, lala, the tracks I am familiar with occur on cobblestone or in silk. I am at a bit of loss when it comes to soil and trees-"

"Wolf," Livilla said abruptly. She dropped the amulet on the bed, and the sound of wind faded. "The amulet around my neck is a bear's paw, and that one is from a wolf. Our tales claim each was imprinted by the Gods themselves when they were forged. Has Artana told you anything about the Gods of our People?"

"Ah, a bit, only a bit... Wolf, wolf…" Ives searched through his memory, trying to recall Artana's patient - at first, anyway - lectures about her people's gods. "I would venture to guess Pen-harel?" That didn't sound _quite_ right, so he shrugged, expression sheepish. "I only know a little, I admit."

Her eyebrow rose, as if she hadn't expected even that much knowledge. "Very good, lout. Fen'Harel. The Dreadful Wolf." She looked down again, scrutinizing the amulet. "The Tevene were convinced that the amulets somehow evoked the power of the Gods without _involving_ the Gods. When they couldn't make the amulets work, they resorted to more extreme measures. And, being Magisters, that meant blood and pain." She paused, frowning. "Perhaps it would be better to show you." Scooting away from the amulet, she reached to the bottom of her shirt and pulled it up in one smooth motion.

Her torso was criss-crossed with scars. An eye experienced with weapons would recognize some of them - long, thin marks left by a thin blade; puckered marks left by a serrated edge; shiny scars indicative of burns. The marks even moved over her breasts, leaving almost no area of her skin untouched by the damage. In fact, there was a disturbing similarity in some ways between the scars she bore and the ones which laced Martin's body, a comparison he knew would bear further consideration... later. Livilla pointed to a mark between her breasts: a distinct mark of a wolf's paw. "I have three of these. This is the easiest one to show you, since I refuse to shave my head again."

Ives wasn't quite sure how to react. He'd shown her his own scars, but there was a certain difference between when a man shucked his shirt and when a woman did the same. He was still studying the quickly offered flesh even as it was taken away just as fast when she lowered her hem once more. "Three?" If one was there, the other on the head, and the third difficult to show... "Ah, lala, do continue." He blinked, forcing himself to restore eye contact. Livilla didn't need to know quite how intrigued he was.

After tugging one more time at the bottom of her shift, she laid her hand gently on the bed next to the amulet. "When the amulet and its mark comes into contact with your skin, it... it makes a link to the Fade, one that is incorruptible. When I was a child, I was- My Clan had to- " She looked aside for a second with a sigh. "I... I suppose you don't need to actually know that part. The point is that the Magisters thought to create a permanent link to the Fade, similar to a Dreamer, which would give them the power of the gods. They, of course, dismissed the notion that the Creators and Fen'Harel could be real, so they sought the answer to greater power through other means."

"Well, they are rather notorious for taking their power from others, _non?"_ Ives shifted uneasily, the spectre of blood magic and the reputation of the Tevinter Magisters juxtaposing themselves in his mind with Livilla's scars. He wanted to get nearer to her, to... well, to _comfort_ her, but most regretfully he had not the relationship with her that he did with Isabeau. "It would appear you have a rather intimate knowledge of the reason for such rumors."

"They didn't kill me," she observed with a small shrug. His sharp eyes, however, noticed the tension in her shoulders and the way her eye skittered away from meeting his gaze. "They changed me. They were very excited about the amulets when I told them what the marks meant, since to them it was proof of past ability to call up vast magic with a trinket. Since our gods never existed, by their logic, it must mean those elves who claimed to use the power of our gods had done so through magic and chicanery alone." Her mouth twisted. "They learned differently when the first Magister to wear _that _amulet," she pointed at the one which lay upon the bed, "grew fur and howled at the moon. After that, they decided to experiment with the amulets _through_ me." She held her hand up, a flame waking in the cupped palm as her eye glowed white, then both flame and white faded. "They had mixed results."

He stepped closer, the strength in her spell aiding his battle of restraint. "It never ceases to amaze me how resilient you are, nor to perplex me how misguided the Tevene can be. You remind me quite a bit of Artana, you know, body and soul." A slight smile pulled at his lips, the sort that felt more serious than his usual grins, showing that by some miracle he could be a considerate lout indeed when he desired it. "I was always enthralled by her - ah, your - religion, even if my retention is perhaps lacking in the matter of names. In the end, all a man truly has is his beliefs. We can hope for rebirth or a place to call our own in the Fade, but there's so little certainty we might call fact. I for one say I've no right to claim your gods don't exist if I want to hold any," _of my waning,_ "hope for mine."

She looked up at him, eye wide and lips parted. For a moment, her expression softened, and she hesitantly reached out and laid her hand on his wrist, though she could only meet his gaze for a moment before her eye dropped to contemplate where their skin touched. "A man can be judged by his actions as well as his beliefs. It is... the space between the two where I find my own judgment faulty." Her gaze moved to the wall behind the bed, and Ives remembered that Isabeau's room lay on the other side. She sighed. "It is only one of the many ways in which she is by far my better," she whispered.

Abruptly she pulled her hand away, using it to sweep up the amulet from where it lay on the bed and taking it to the pack resting near the bed. "I only wanted to show you what happens when the amulets are used incorrectly. When used for their original intent, they can save lives. When abused or misused..." She shrugged, kneeling to rummage through her pack. "I'll keep it with my things. I ward them normally, so it won't seem odd to have a bit of magic around my pack if... if someone is curious."

"Well, now _I'm_ curious," Ives countered, and for more than one reason. He followed her to the bedside and let his hand rest on her shoulder this time, all the closer from the last. "And for the record might I say your judgement is always wise, if a touch jaded, _chèrie, _as one would expect of a woman so wrongfully treated. But I ... cannot resist the urge to hear more for another moment. _Save_ lives? How so?" His opposite hand reached in to rest atop hers, keeping it from condemning the medallion to a place he could not retrieve it, at least until he'd heard enough to satisfy his wonder about whether or not it might aid his current predicaments.

Her hand quivered, ever so slightly. "It is at the God's will. I asked Dirthamen to help with Artana when I prepared _my_ amulet, the one with the mark of the bear, for her. It is, in part, his wish that sustains me and keeps the Fa- the taint at bay." She turned her head slightly, tilting it towards him. "This one, though, with the mark of the Wolf... He is capricious. The Dalish only remember him as a traitor, though they do not know the whole story. Yet, if he decided to intervene, I do not think he could _cure_ Artana, even were she inclined to take up his sign. They work on a different level, one that is tied to the soul, not the body. They can ease physical symptoms, but not heal them completely, or I would not look like-" Her mouth snapped shut over the rest of the words, and she looked away. "I am sorry, _emma sa'lath._ I wish it could save her, too."

A capricious traitor? Perhaps this wasn't a question about Artana after all. A couple of victories had occurred today, though, and he looked more pointedly at her than the pendant, letting his arm slide about her more comfortably now that she'd allowed him into her personal space. He had a hundred friendly hugs to offer her on backlog at this point. "I'm curious, do your gods communicate with lowly heathens? I wonder that I might study the amulet a little longer now that you've told me this. I know he isn't _my_ god by any means, and I'm sure I'm but a gnat to one so terrible to behold, but... I feel obliged to try, somehow. I feel hopeful. He has growled at me, after all. A far cry better than the nasty bite I've felt for other curiosities," the last part he murmured, well aware that Livilla hadn't quite been privy to his adventure with her amulet.

"They talk to whomever they wish." Her voice cracked a little, and she stopped to clear her throat. She shifted slightly away from him, though she didn't move out of his reach. "What... what would you ask him? Or would it just be... hope?"

"I ... would want to know ... I don't know. More. Like any conversation, I must listen and see what is offered to know where it would lead. I haven't the highest expectations, but that hardly deters me from trying. He seems the sort to sympathize with a pariah. Perhaps I would explore that connection." A statement true for Artana, but intended for another. "Is that ill-advised? It is said the Maker doesn't respond to prayers because they are often begged in selfish intent. I imagine I might be treading those same waters by hoping for a response at all?"

"The Maker doesn't answer prayers because-" She stopped herself. "I... I probably am not the best authority on the Chantry or their gods." Her chin dropped as her eye fell on where his hand rested on hers. "I... I don't know what to advise you. Fen'Harel... When the Magisters used his amulet on me, he-" Again she stopped, and her hand curled around the amulet. "He might... ask for something in return," she whispered.

Every little thing she'd just said had demanded his curiosity, his right brow unable to raise any little bit higher. Though a thousand questions might have popped to mind to fill the gaps she'd left in her hesitations, he knew guessing would be a fool's errand. Instead he focused on the one thing he might actually get a response to and let his hand close around hers. "Fen'Harel asked you for something, then?"

The silence stretched between them for so long Ives began to wonder if she would respond. Finally he heard her take a shuddering breath as she turned to look at him. The light from the fireplace reflected off some moisture in her eye, but her expression and voice were calm when she answered, "Yes. A... relatively small price, or so I thought." She shrugged. "It is different for everyone." Slowly her hand turned over, her fingers lightly wrapping around his as she offered the amulet to him. "I... I cannot stop you from choosing the same path I did. Just... be cautious, _emma sa'lath."_

Clearly, he'd have to whittle at this mystery awhile longer before he got any kind of satisfying response. Ives finally drew his hand away when she loosened her grasp, his own eyes still carefully studying her one. "... I am always cautious. And always curious. A fascinating combination, may I just say. I'm curious even this precise moment, in fact. You're going to tell me what _sa'lath_ means, aren't you? Hmm?"

"I-" With a seeming effort, she tore herself from eye contact with him and looked back down at her pack. "It means 'lout'." Occupying her attention and her hands with closing and warding the bag, she said, "What else could it mean?"

"I claim to be no linguist, but I do feel as though Artana has - on occasion - referred to Jean or I as _emma'lath, _so... Ah, well, I've likely tormented you for enough answers in one day. Lout it is. Shall I leave you be? As I recall, Jean's evening activities had been interrupting your sleep. He seems dreadfully_ frustrated_ lately, doesn't he?" Mischievous twinkle in his baby blues, Ives slid the amulet into his pocket - where it had begun - and took a step back. "I'll let my loutish little self out."

"Obviously Artana just doesn't want to call you lout to your faces in a manner where it would hurt your delicate little feelings," Livilla said. "And don't mind the door if it bites you - it's the least you deserve." She turned to the bed and lay down on it, facing the wall. "Don't wake me tomorrow. I need to catch up on my rest."

Ives chuckled, taking all he'd learned with him from the room with a smile on his face that helped to guard him against the troubles lurking in the shadows. "Sleep well, _chèrie_." The door was tugged shut, but he didn't immediately head down the hall. He lingered there and drew in a deep breath, calculating through the day and where he might go in the night. Admitting he was just too exhausted to not sleep tonight, he began down the hall towards his lonely bedroom, hand tapping a rhythm on the amulet tucked in his pocket as he moved down the hall.

Thankfully there was enough reflex in him to dance back away from an opening door and a curtain of blond hair. He was still blinking as the man turned to apologize. "Oh! Oh, sorry, darling."

"Not a problem," Ives said, his tone a little bland as his mind turned around an odd feeling of _deja vu_.

"I think I'm seeing double!" the unusual man said while looking beyond Ives, and the bard turned to see his brother stepping out of the room next to Livilla's.

When he turned back, a gentle chuckle in his throat and words on the tip of his tongue, he found the blond man was gone and the door he'd come out of shut. That made him hesitate, trying to figure out what had happened while simultaneously checking his pockets to be sure it hadn't been an odd attempt to pickpocket him.

"You should go to bed," Jean said, approaching his brother. "Artana would probably like to sleep soon."

Ives turned again, all his effects in place, save for his certainty on quite what was going on. "Ah, no no, I'll take the small room." His eyes shifted for a moment to the door Jean had exited, then again settled on the warrior across from him. "I need to approach Artana carefully after making our precious Princess a tinge green on the road earlier. Besides, I'm overdue to rest a little better. Sadly the beautiful dance of a hummingbird and a succulent flower does not involve much sleeping."

"You ... have not been sleeping well on this trip," Jean challenged. Ives watched as his brother's eyes shifted this time to his little isolated room. "There was something tucked in your bed roll earlier." In the next moment, Ives knew where Jean was going with this. Jean's gaze settled on Ives' hip, devoid of a holster for a pair of unique daggers that had always been a prized possession from a faraway city. "Why did you leave them behind?"

"I didn't want to lose them?" Ives offered playfully, knowing any answer he could have given - even, in this case, the truth - wouldn't have been a satisfactory response. "Ah, _mon frère_, you do tend to have such good questions. This one, I think, I would prefer to not answer until I've slept, if it is all the same to you. If you're going to worry yourself with being meddlesome, why don't you meddle a good word in with Artana for me, _oui?_"

Jean exhaled through his nose as he shook his head, and Ives couldn't miss the disappointment in his face. "Between us, in the important things, I am not used to being the last informed.'

"Well, when I choose to inform anyone at all, you shall be the first to know," Ives assured him, reaching out to give his shoulder a firm clap. "Rest well, and keep her happy. _Bonsoir, mon frère_." With a spectacularly unnecessary flourish and considerable tilt into a bow, Ives took three steps backwards before turning and retreating towards his room and its bed - even if it _was_ lonely.

Then again, as Ives paused behind the closed door, he had to wonder if it really was all that lonely. Even the quickest of scans showed a half-dozen things out of place, from the subtle touch of his bag being at a slightly different angle, to trinkets he left by the bed being slightly out of place or reordered, to the extremely blatant placement of his new daggers right on top of his pillow. Martin had clearly stopped in, and now the reminder was difficult to ignore - he'd be sleeping with an audience tonight, and most likely _had_ been, every night Martin could stop in since the dance in Val Royeaux.

Somehow, that didn't bode well with Ives' chances of getting a good night's rest. Resigning himself to it much as he had the lonely room, he moved forward to fetch the blades so that he could hide them again in his bedroll. He had to clear the pillow if he wanted to plant his face in it, after all, but more importantly his clever Dalish tracker had to be kept from knowing they had company on their trip.

.~^~.

The next day, Ives whistled softly as he returned to the inn after his midmorning visit to the blacksmith. Successfully charming his way into a lower price was a victory, even if he called in a trump by mentioning that the armor was for a beautiful warrior _woman_, a prospect that had intrigued the burly man enough that he'd promised a break in the cost of labor if she would come herself to pick it up later that day upon its completion. Since he was fairly certain he could persuade Isabeau to cooperate, after a few hours of Livilla's special white-eyed attention this morning, he felt almost buoyant. Livilla had smiled at him this morning, Jean had smiled at Isabeau, and Artana had... well, at least glanced at Ives without frowning during breakfast. _Tiny steps along the way, _non?

As he turned a corner, he suddenly felt something tug at the fringe of his hair. Someone next to him staggered and fell, clutching at something in their neck.

"Maker!" Ives cursed, turning to see what had been done, his fine mood extinguished. He had a pretty good idea _who_ and _what_ as far as motives, but the affected party might not have yet bled out, and Martin could be dealt with later. He checked the body, trying to see what he hid under his tightened hand.

A man ran up and knelt beside him. "Maker, what happened? Is he all right?" Dressed in the clothes of a common workman, he helped Ives pry the hand, which spasmed oddly, from its death grip. Below the twitching fingers he found a small dart, placed with perfection into the jugular of the victim. "_Maker's breath!_ Murder in the streets!" He turned to look at Ives, brown eyes wide. "Did you see who did it?"

_Brown eyes._ Ives relaxed slightly. "Sadly no, my friend. I was hoping to save his life, but it seems quite impossible." Ives sighed, gesturing down a road he knew the dart did indeed _not_ come from. "It must have been that direction, the way he fell. Perhaps the guards can find who is responsible."

Face set, the man nodded. "I'll go alert them. Thank you, ser." He stood and hurried away, leaving Ives kneeling next to the fallen body.

"Hmmmm, such a pity," a voice said close to his ear, and in the next moment a soft kiss landed upon it. "Still, he died with little pain, and with such artistry." A hand, scarred and slender, reached past Ives and shut the man's staring eyes. "'Tis a beautiful thing, to watch life flee its host. So _ephemeral_ and tenuous." Ives felt the breath move to his neck, though to his relief the lips remained _away_. "So, are you well, _mon ami?"_

"I would be better, I admit, if you would find a way to contact me that did not involve the death of an innocent bystander, hm?" Ives stood, taking nothing from the corpse. Bandits were one thing, but this man might had done nothing wrong. "It can make more than just the head droop in a man like me... We wouldn't want that, would we? Ah, lala, of course not." Sliding his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, Ives continued down the road so he wouldn't have to dally with the guards. "I daresay with your calling cards left so plainly in the open, you want the group to know you are following us. Why _is_ that, I wonder?"

"Ah, _so so_, my dear friend," Martin said, casually falling into step beside him, arm touching his. "To which group do you refer? The one I follow, or the one which follows you - at least, until I decide to intervene, as I did with _that_ 'poor' fellow." He whistled a long, low note. "Those Tevene - so _persistent_, no?" With a sudden move, he hooked his arm around Ives' elbow and steered him to a small café with lovely little tables and chairs set up under an awning to protect its patrons from the sun. "Come, let us share a drink, my friend. The wines of the local vineyards are quite famous, so I understand."

Settling down into a chair, Martin signaled the waiter, obviously expecting Ives to follow suit. He looked up when Ives did not immediately sit. "Would you prefer your lecture now, or in front of your lovely Commander, hmm? Some deep, dark night, when you are all alone, out far away from any other aid... or here, in the sunlight, and surrounded by innocent, happy people." The jovial mask fell momentarily from his face, showing a moment of fury before resetting to the carefree look to which had been affecting. "Come, come, my friend, your choice."

Ives chuckled slightly to hide his uneasiness, a smirk on his face. _This was not meant to be simple_, he reminded himself, taking a chair in his hand and turning it around. He repositioned it, leaving it close to Martin, and sat in it backwards, his arms crossed about the top of the back. He was close enough that his leg rested against Martin's thigh, and he allowed it to dig in slightly as he adjusted himself in the chair. "No, no, friend. My hesitation has nothing to do with your… hobbies, or apparent jealousy of Artana. I wondered why the Tevene needed to _die_, for surely a good enough scare would have set him off our path."

Ives sighed just in time for the waiter to approach. "Something dark and rich, please. A decanter, not merely a glass. That would be lovely, thank you." Allowing Martin a moment for his request of a much lighter wine, Ives only continued when the waiter had left. "Where was I? Oh, _oui, oui_. Your terrible defensiveness. Such a face that was! I know the thought of sharing is so very hard to some people, but it just breaks my heart to hear all these nasty little threats. Can't we just have a friendly conversation?"

"Threats? Did I ever threaten your pretty little elf? Ah, no, _mon ami,_ it is not I who failed in their duty, is it? I have already killed more than you know, all for the safety of your little elf... and my angel." At these words, his mask fell from his face once more. "So terrible, to see a loved one fall, or almost fall, in battle. Her mother so dearly wanted her to never bear the blade, to never worry about an arrow from an enemy... And I, my greatest failure was to unwillingly contribute to her attaining that dream."

He leaned forward, eyes intent, his voice dropping low. "I have warned Jean, and he now knows, on a _familial_ level, what the consequences will be if I lose my family. I merely wish to... _emphasize_ the importance of my angel's safety, _mon ami_." Leaning back, he smiled. "As much as you are, mmm, how shall I say it, _most_ intriguing in the hunt, and certainly present more of a challenge for certain _predilections_ of mine than dear Isabeau, I will not hesitate to act should such as occurred yesterday happen more... _terminally._"

Martin fell silent as the server returned with their wine, carelessly throwing some royals to the man. After they were alone once more, he held up his wineglass, looking at the light refract in the pale _rosette_ within. "It is my tragedy that I cannot protect her during all my waking and sleeping hours. It will be _yours_ if you and yours do not do it for me." He drained the glass, heaving a sigh of delight. "Ah, a most _excellent_ vintage, my friend. Pity you like the darker side of life too much, _non?"_

Ives poured his own glass while Martin was talking, brimming it rather full before taking it to his lips. It was marvelous wine, that was true... he just knew he'd need it for reasons other than taste. "Mm..." With the bard's turn on the board complete, he put his already half-empty glass aside, his hand propping his cheek as he looked into mismatched eyes. "I think you worry too much, my curious friend. I'm quite relaxed myself. I have no intention to let a friend die. Though... it is heartening, I think," he added, shifting in his chair as he brought his glass up again. "Your inconsistencies are always fascinating." _Particularly the ones where a cold, uncaring man would turn the world upside down for someone to protect..._

"Bah, I'm so full of digressions this day. I think what it comes to is that I would say we're quite different. You … see problems as things to end. I see them as things to work beyond. I'd be ever so appreciative if you stop considering my niece and nephews pawns in your leverage, though. They're quite near and dear to my own heart. In fact, you might say I'm jealous of my brother. And now you know more than most." He looked to his glass and raised it again, taking a short sip. "Mm, but-" He raised his other hand, pointer finger extended upwards, "I must admit you do seem to be good at what you do. I just still have absolutely no grasp on why you'd waste your talents on it. I must be old, and these new ways beyond me. I just always thought to let a person live once you'd taken them out of the picture was so much more … well, it's poetic justice, isn't it? The heart of the Game. Is the Court so different now? Or is this all for your … mysterious benefactor, whomever it is?"

Martin set his glass down on the table perhaps a trifle more firmly than was good for it, but his eyes never wavered from the bright blue of the man sitting near him. "Ah, but you have known trust, no? To trust others and be trusted by them. Some of us have not had... the luxury." Martin handed his empty glass to a passing server, waving three fingers at him. "Also, you assume I act of my own accord entirely, or that I am, in fact, a bard acting within their conventions, and not an agent mimicking them to gain access to a closed system." He smiled as the server brought a bag to him. "Ah, here it is." Taking some gold from his pocket, he poured it into the man's hands. "My gratitude for holding that trifle for me." Ives was pouring another glass of wine.

Returning his attention to Ives, he scrutinized the other man for a while, green eye narrowed slightly. "The Game is a distraction to such as I and my Master, a thing of very little concern when our goals are larger than Orlais." Pushing the package towards Ives, he said, "Another gift, though you are cruel enough to spurn my last one. Do not worry, _mon ami_, you need not do more than look once at this one. It is merely a statement of my.. _regard_ for you and your companions, one in particular." He held up a hand. "No, no, don't open it now, wait until you are alone and can savor it fully." He stood and threw some coins on the table but found a hand dipping into his waistband enough to pull him back to the seat. "Ah, it is something more... intimate you seek, then?"

Ives chuckled. "That, I'm not so certain I'd handle so well having been in the saddle most of a week now." His face and tone sobered - a word he'd wished to leave behind with the wine. "No, I've a much more serious mention: I'm just not going to let you leave with misconceptions in the air. Much as you have no idea where our final destination lies, the others have no idea that I've allowed you to shadow us. Now - if I used the daggers you gave me without consideration for the intelligence of the others, who would quickly realize they weren't there when the trip began, they might know what only I currently do. Artana is quite intelligent, as, indeed, is Jean - believe it or don't. One or the other would notice, and then questions would raised that would very quickly hinder your access to me."

Silence was his answer: silence and a stare that did not waver, even when Martin's glass rose to his lips for another sip.

Taking that to mean that Martin at least acceded the point, Ives moved to another topic, softening any potential barbs of rejection and aiming to move past that piercing silence. "So, yes, as I say, it would be a dangerous thing indeed to have that gift be seen. We have this new addition to our little ... Ah, what is a collection of horses? Is it in fact a herd?" After a moment, Ives shook his head at the absurdity and uselessness of that particular question, then waved it away with his hand. "Well, suffice to say, the only suitable horse we've found is a male that sadly does not play well with others. I'll lend Carrot to dear Isabeau as he is at least well-behaved when not stabled near a mare, and volunteer myself to ... fight with riding a most unbridled midnight stallion. For the life of me, it seems he has no desire to relax and enjoy the ride. I am certain with tensions so high from uncomfortable rides, the reaction to your gift would be most explosive." Finished talking, he tipped back the last of that second glass, wishing its warmth would go on and spread. Alas, he might not get relief until this conversation had progressed a bit further.

Martin leaned forward, his mismatched eyes narrowed with scrutiny as his hand settled lightly on the bard's arm. The intimate gesture caught Ives off-guard, but he forced himself to submit to the touch without comment or complaint. "Perhaps you are right," Martin murmured. "I shall strive to provide more _appropriate_ gifts, next time - and bestow them in a more suitable and subtle manner." His hand reached up and touched Ives' ear, slowly tracing the line of his jaw before his thumb rubbed gently over the man's lips. "Your lips, they say these things most seductively, _mon ami._ Tragic that I cannot lead you elsewhere without-" Snapping his hand back, he sat back in the chair. "Be that as it may, your precious little ones are safe from me, _mon ami_. I... I would not stoop so low, no, unless-" He looked away, watching the passersby. "Isabeau will never have children, _non?_ It is impossible for Wardens, is it not?"

Ives had been incredibly patient with Martin's roaming hand, even offering an upwards curl to his lips once his thumb brushed the lower one. "Hmm. You know of our Joining, somehow, but you don't … seem to know very much else about Wardens, do you?"

"I-" He paused. "As I have said, Wardens are... _exhilarating _in the hunt, but sadly I have found them remarkably close-lipped once caught. Unless they have reason to leave the Order. Then I find them quite... talkative." He glanced at Ives. "My Master can be quite persuasive, far more so than I. My powers of persuasion were expended when I convinced him to leave Isabeau in Montfort, and I have not gotten my way with him since." A slight smile touched his lips. "So I know some, not _all._ Not as much as my Master, that is for certain."

"Mm... I see. Well, it's quite a serious matter to spill the secrets of this particular Order. Others may reprimand, depending on the level of treason.. but largely, leaks mean little for knights or Chevaliers or... well, whatever you please. No one is surprised to hear that Templars - who don't have magic of their own - take lyrium to use it against mages. But … that doesn't prevent people from joining the Templars. Well, it may some, who are inherently against using lyrium - but those people are few enough, no?"

He put more of his weight against the table, his right arm still across the top of the chair, his left elbow on the table as he propped up his head, a lazy and comfortable lean to his posture. "In Peace, Vigilance. In War, Victory. In Death, Sacrifice..." Ives quoted, sighing dramatically. "In _Life_ Sacrifice! If you didn't know what you were pushing her into, I can see why you shouldn't be blamed. No one would Join if they knew of the gnawing hunger, the constant Nightmares, the plague that bores through us... yes, it.. well, it is extraordinary indeed if a Warden conceives. Even if they did, what would they do with the child?"

"The taint will eventually consume us, forcing us to seek out the Darkspawn... and even if we wish to run from them, they'll eventually find us. But I've already said far too much. You've given me gifts, but how can I be sure you won't give this rare information to the highest bidder? I feel so much more invested in this _friendship_ just now. Weisshaupt would have me hung, yet here I am with these seductive lips so very loose. I rather like my neck not broken, don't you?"

Martin didn't say anything at first, sitting extraordinarily still. Then he leaned forward. "You want some truth, _mon ami?_ You describe terrors indeed, for every Warden, but I tell you truly: I would rather slit her throat myself than allow her to serve as I have and do what I have done." He withdrew a small dagger from his sleeve and casually began cleaning his nails. "In truth, I was sent to the Keep that day to perform two tasks: kill the servant and take my angel back to _him_. My Master is most... _greedy_, you see, when he has found a toy he enjoys. I... I chose a different end to my sister's tale." The dagger disappeared, and his eyes... again, they changed, as they had following the Caged Lion. "I live for her, Ives Durante. I live for nothing but hunt, ah, it is distracting and entertaining... but my life, as you say, my _duty_... it is only for her."

Though his heart was pounding, the tension and suspense at its peak, Ives admirably remained outwardly calm, feeling it was far too important to coax out more information in this moment of rare vulnerability to allow himself failure, even if the alcohol was finally creeping along his skin and warming it nicely. "That is very noble and righteous indeed. I wonder... how is it such a dastardly man," he smirked, letting up from his left hand. With it extended he was able to reach Martin's arm, and he let his fingertips drag up from his elbow to shoulder. "... Wound up with such a selfless calling? I ever more think you let yourself be who you do not want, dear Martin."

"The Master gave me a choice, in the long and long ago, a choice most cruel and designed to harm. He would take one of us, no more. I chose myself to serve him." Martin glanced at the hand that touched him, eyes distant yet strangely focused. "I saw what he did, you see. I saw his eyes, his face, his smile. She was so young. I could no more give her to him than I could..." He looked away. "Ah, but your touch has the desired effect, I see. I prefer _your_ lips to be loose, or hard, as appropriate. Mine..." He shook his head. "I cannot afford such indulgence as trust. I have already risked too much, as you. He does not trust me, you see, but he must, at the least, trust in my belief that he could reach out and kill whomever he desires." He met Ives' eyes. "Such as the mother of a much beloved angel."

He leaned forward, tracing the line of muscle on Ives' lower arm. "I do not wish you in my world, _mon ami_, as you do not wish me to be in yours. And yet, in your world is where I must dwell, to ensure that the worst nightmares that keep me from sleep, that keep me watchful, that acquire such _delightful_ gifts such as these," his hand rested on the large package still on the table, "do not come to pass. You say I am nervous? When you have seen what I have seen, then, perhaps, you will acquire the same nerves."

He glanced at the fleeting spots of shade along the sides of the street, no doubt gauging the light. Ives understood why - a man so fond of the shadows couldn't have been fond of high noon. "And now, as much as it pains me, I must away. There is still much hunting to be done, as they say, against that most dangerous of prey." Kissing his fingertips, he laid them gently on the other man's lips. "Until we once again meet, _mon ami,_" he whispered, then smoothly leapt from his seat and moved in the shadows, quickly disappearing.

Ives quietly watched him go. For all that meeting was somewhat painful, at least he still had _the touch_. Martin was entirely convinced of something there that was, in fact, not in any way true. He shook his head after a moment and chuckled aloud. _The Martyr chasing the Martyr._ Of whom could Martin possibly be so afraid? In the past two years, Ives had met demons and ogres, and before_ that_ he'd worked directly under the Empress. It stood to reason that he'd performed tasks for some of the most important people in Thedas, and battled some of the nastiest forces he could fathom existed. So what exactly had Martin so bundled up in this?

"Oh, Maker." He sighed, that smile still on his face. He poured his last half a glass of wine and began to sip it, picking up that bag and peeking inside. The shapes were odd, but the scent was lavender. It was a mistake to think perhaps they contained wrapped soaps. He was punished for pulling back the bundled parchment around one, his nose turning up when he saw more than enough to figure out what was contained. Without even bothering to unwrap another, he tossed the thumb back into the bag and bound it back up. As he stood he swayed a little, his eyes widening as a dose of vertigo threatened to lower him once more.

"Ah, lala. I'm out of practice, indeed." He took the bag with him as far as the first un-topped barrel, tossing it inside as he walked a crooked line back towards their inn. He wasn't staggering, he just seemed to wander a little more aimlessly than he usually would. "Who, oh who, dear Martin," he hummed to a tune he made up on the spot, "who, dear Martin, pulls your strings... yes but who could knot you up and tie you down... Maker, that doesn't rhyme at all. This early waking is bad for the mind... Or maybe the wine... Hah, now I rhyme."

He chuckled at his own lack of judgement on three full glasses of wine, but supposed that he'd needed it. There _was_ something _else_ he could really use, of course, but the sources were ever limited these days. Despite what he'd said about his saddle sore, there was just something about that green eye, when he was talking like that - so raw, almost vulnerable... _That_ man he could - he could maybe...

He shook his head and pinched his nose. "Ah, lala, how strong _was_ that wine?" It was a _terrible_ idea. No matter how woefully lonely he became whilst his Dalish Princess was monopolized by Jean and, thus, more willing to alienate him in the name of disciplining his reckless tendencies, there were a thousand reasons to abandon _that_ train of thought. One way or the other, he was certain no good could come of sleeping with Martin, even should the need to protect the others from him demand such an outcome. Of course, in the case of the latter Ives wouldn't refuse, but it would still be a wildly complicated endeavor.

_Maybe I could get his subservience to this 'Master' out of his head before such a meeting does manage to happen... He certainly doesn't seem to _agree_ with the man._

Middle of the day or no, Ives wanted a nap.


End file.
